Fall to Ruin One Day
by sleepyvalentina
Summary: He wanted to be the most powerful man on earth. As far as she was concerned, he already was. Love. Longing. A decade of regret. Time changes nothing...or does it?
1. Prologue

I don't own Twilight.

This story was written from a prompt for the Twilight exchange. It was originally published February 1, 2010 on the Twilight Exchange LJ community, but I wrote it in December in a post-surgical haze. Huge thanks to bittenbee for betaing this gift to my beta.

The prompt from wickedcicada was as follows:

Years after their less-than-amicable parting on Christmas Day, _ bumps into ex-lover _ over the holidays. What happens?

I wrote this as a oneshot, but Elizabeth440 won a full-length piece from during FGB and has asked this be extended.

* * *

to doctor m, with love

* * *

**_Fall to Ruin One Day_**

* * *

**December 25, 1999  
Washington-Dulles International Airport**

It's impossible for me not to be introspective.

It's the end of a relationship and the end of a millennium. It's a holiday commemorating the birth of a savior, and despite the fact I don't consider myself a Christian, I know I'll forever associate this day with my own salvation. As I make my way to the ticket counter, I can't help my awareness that it is the first day of the rest of my life—a life without Edward Cullen.

"I'd like to purchase a ticket, please."

"Where to?"

I can't leave him entirely. On impulse, I choose the town in which he was raised, the same town to which he'd sworn he'd never return.

"Chicago," I say. "One-way. I won't be coming back."


	2. Jack and Diet Coke

A Fandom Gives Back piece for Elizabeth440.

This chapter is a reworking of the original oneshot, which she wanted extended into a full-length piece.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Jack and Diet Coke**

* * *

Each time the check-in line moves, I drag my luggage two measly feet, not getting anywhere quickly. I'm on my way to spend Thanksgiving with my best friend from college, a person whom I haven't treated all that well during the decade since graduation. It wasn't anything personal; she's fabulous. She also happens to be—for better or worse—associated with him. I didn't feel I could communicate with her without thinking of him, and _not_ thinking of him is critical to my survival.

In the months immediately following my move to Chicago, it was still too much for me to take. When I decided I was finally emotionally able to maintain relationships with individuals who also maintained relationships with him, I wasn't sure how to go about re-establishing contact. Months turned into years, and it seemed too awkward. Finally Alice, my best friend from college, scrawled the following note at the bottom of the birthday card she'd sent me two months ago:

_This is ridiculous. It's been ten years. We miss you. Come home._

Washington D.C. never felt like home to me, but she made her point nonetheless. Lapse in contact notwithstanding, I love her as if she were my sister. Deciding to conquer all but my biggest demon at once, I booked a flight back east. Surely I could visit the life I'd left behind without second-guessing my decision to do so.

In the absence of anything to occupy my mind, it's hard not to focus on my fear. Desperate for distraction, I study the people around me. It works until my eyes fall upon him.

I'd know him anywhere, though not because the past ten years had left him unchanged. Certainly, aspects of him remain the same—his shock of red hair, bright green eyes, and long, lean figure—but just as many are different. Now his jaw is more defined, his face having long ago lost the roundness of youth. Tiny wrinkles adorn the corners of his eyes, and though his smile is the same, the lines it forms on his face no longer disappear when his expression changes. I want to pretend these changes are a surprise to me, but they aren't. I see pictures of him daily whether I want to or not.

Though the first-class line in which he's standing is considerably shorter than mine, he still has one person in front of him. As his eyes scan the room, I'm torn between wanting him to notice me and praying that he won't.

He looks in my direction, seeming to gaze through me. Any hope he recognizes me—that he thinks of me with the same frequency I think of him—deserts me when my eyes meet his blank stare. I feel part physical pain, part relief when he turns his attention to the woman behind the counter. I'd gotten over him (but just barely) by telling myself (several times each day for nearly ten years) that though Edward Cullen may live and breathe, though he may be the junior senator from my state of residence and that I may have even voted for him (twice, if I count the Democratic primary), my Edward no longer exists. Fifteen feet away from me may stand a man with lips I'd kissed and a body I'd clung to in my sleep, but that's where all similarity ends. As much as I want to believe otherwise, I'm not breathing the same air as the man I love, whom I'd spent the past ten years missing beyond all reason; I'm merely occupying the same space as his ghost.

Minutes later, boarding pass in hand, he hurries toward the terminal without looking back. I spend the duration of my wait wishing I could forget him as easily as he seems to have forgotten me. Just when I can't be alone with my thoughts a moment longer, it's my turn to approach the counter. I hand the airline employee my driver's license and hoist my suitcase up onto the scale.

"I'm showing a first-class reservation to Washington-Dulles. Is this the only bag you're checking?"

"Coach," I mutter. "It should be coach."

"You received an upgrade. Checking one bag?"

"Yes. One bag."

She hands me a boarding pass with the claim check to my suitcase. "There you go. Thank you for flying with us."

I'm sure someone has made a mistake, but I'm not about to complain. As I make my way to the gate I wonder if I'll find a charge for the upgrade on my credit card, but the moment I settle myself into the large leather seat at the front of the plane, I no longer care. This changes when I hear a voice I'd know anywhere (and not solely from CSPAN) ask the flight attendant to hang up his coat.

There's no way he didn't plan this.

"Hello, Isabella," he says, sliding into the seat beside me.

His smile makes me weak, and if there was any question of why I'd put so much effort into avoiding him over the past ten years, I now have my answer. His affectation of formality notwithstanding; in his presence, I lose myself.

I acknowledge him with a curt nod and respond to the tone of his greeting in kind. "Senator Cullen."

He cringes, but says nothing.

The flight attendant appears and asks for our pre-take-off drink orders. If I have any chance of surviving the flight, I'd best start drinking now.

"Jack and Diet Coke, please."

"And for you, Senator?" she says.

"Scotch on the rocks."

The words come out of my mouth on their own. "Good thing your father isn't here."

"Please," he adds, almost automatically.

The flight attendant hurries off to get our drinks.

"I wasn't talking about your manners, though I suppose my statement could be equally applicable to them. I was referring to you putting ice in your scotch."

"It's not as if it's good scotch."

"If it has the word 'glen' in its name, it's still a travesty." I sound completely inane. Am I actually teasing him about his beverage selection? There are so many other things I want to know—starting with how I ended up sitting beside him. "Did you arrange for my upgrade?"

"Guilty as charged."

"Why?"

"I wanted to talk to you, and I suspected that wouldn't happen if you had a means of a escape. If your attitude is any indication, I was correct in my assumption."

"Why bother? I distinctly remember you telling me that if I left you, you wouldn't follow me. Ten years in politics notwithstanding, I always took you to be a man of your word."

"Technically, I didn't follow you; I happened upon you in an airport."

"How did you know we were on the same flight?"

"I asked the nice lady at the check-in counter."

"As one of your constituents, I'm appalled that you would abuse your power in this way."

"You're assuming I used the power that comes with being a Senator."

"Didn't you?"

His answering smile is one I knew long before it earned him his place among _People_ magazine's sexiest men alive.

"Oh."

"I daresay it wouldn't have worked had the airline employee been male, unless of course, he swung that way. Apparently, luck was on my side."

"'Daresay? I was sure years of positioning yourself as a champion of the working class would have deWASPified your speech patterns."

"DeWASPified isn't a word."

"Only because the editors of the Oxford English Dictionary haven't met your family."

"Ha ha. You're funny. Just so you know, it's my voting record that makes me a champion of the working class, not my speech patterns."

"Clearly. They're as upper-crusty as ever. It just goes to show, you can take the boy out of Milton Academy, but you can't take Milton Academy out of the boy."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not the only person in this row the past ten years left unchanged. In a world of chaos, you Isabella, are a constant."

I want to tell him he's wrong, that I've changed quite a bit since 1999, that I'm strong and self-sufficient, and I no longer need a man to know who I am. The words die in my throat, and before I'm able to revive them, the flight attendant returns with our drinks. Edward sips his scotch; I down my Jack and Diet Coke in a single gulp.

Edward looks surprised but doesn't comment.

"Does five minutes of your attention really buy a first-class upgrade?"

"Five minutes of my attention bought me a look at your travel itinerary; my American Express card bought your upgrade."

"I'd thank you, but I imagine by the end of this flight I will have more than paid for it." With my soul, I add silently.

"Is the thought of two hours in my company that unappealing to you?"

"Eh," I say, shrugging.

To be honest, the prospect of two hours in his company both thrills and terrifies me, but I don't want him to know that. As it is, I wasn't ready for him to know anything...much.

"If my presence is that distressing to you, I'm sure I can find someone in coach who would be happy to switch seats with me."

My answer flies from my lips before I can think better of it.

"Please stay."

He smiles, and I know. Self-preservation be damned—this time, I'll never be able to leave.

The plane begins taxiing to the runway, and the flight attendant collects our glasses before launching into a monologue regarding emergency exit procedures. Grateful for the distraction, I concentrate on her words and double-check my seat belt. After she finishes, I lean back into my seat and stare out the window.

"You actually paid attention?" Edward teases.

"Well, yes. I mean, I know the odds are somewhat slim, but an emergency could happen."

"Isabella, the instructions the same on every flight."

"Yes, well, I haven't flown in a while," I mutter dryly. "I figured I could use a refresher."

The noise of the engine picks up, and it's several minutes before conversation is possible. Seconds after the plane finishes its ascent, our drinks are replenished.

"How does it feel?" I ask. "You know...to have accomplished everything you set out to do."

"Well, I haven't accomplished _everything_."

"You may not be President, but you're a senator. That's pretty big. Besides, I think I read in _People_you're only thirty-six. Even Kennedy wasn't _that_young."

"Don't be cute; you know exactly how old I am. Since when you do read _People_?"

"I don't. But when I saw my ex-boyfriend on the cover, I decided to make an exception. Had I known you'd one day be considered the sexiest man alive, I would have insisted you walk around our apartment naked."

He rolls his eyes. "What makes you think I was talking about my political aspirations?"

"With you, it's always about your political aspirations. So, is that still part of the plan?"

"What? Running for President?"

"Yes."

"My plan is to serve the people of this great nation; the capacity in which I do so doesn't matter to me," he says, as if reading a pre-written speech from a teleprompter.

"I deserve more than a canned answer from you."

"Why? Because you're my ex-girlfriend who didn't realize she was dating the sexiest man alive at the time of our relationship?"

"With all due respect, Senator, I've seen sexier."

"I beg to differ. Oh, and just so you know, the rest of my ex-girlfriends don't call me 'Senator.'".

"Are there many of them?"

"Senators? There are two from each state, and the Union is at an all-time high of fifty states. You clearly didn't pay attention in eighth-grade civics, but maybe you remember third-grade arithmetic. What's fifty times two?"

Even his condescension is appealing. If I weren't still in love with him, I'd hate him.

"That wasn't what I was asking, and you know it. Your point is taken regardless; I'm fully aware my question was inappropriate."

He laughs, but it's not the canned laugh he gives reporters. He's not producing the appropriate sound without the appropriate joy ever reaching his eyes. It's a real laugh. It's the laugh that haunts my dreams.

Of its own accord, my hand reaches over the arm rest to touch his. He startles and nearly spills his scotch, but he doesn't pull away.

"And yet you asked anyway. It's nice to see time hasn't improved your manners."

I shrug, squeezing his hand. "I scoff at propriety."

"Clearly. By the way, do you want the tabloids to report we're involved?"

"What?"

He angles his head toward our joined hands. "Don't get me wrong—I'm enjoying your touch. I just don't think you realize what a public display of affection toward me such as this implies."

I drop my hand onto my lap. "Sorry."

"Me, too," he says. "What have you been up to?"

"I'm visiting Alice for Thanksgiving."

"So she said; I meant over the past ten years."

"Oh. Well, I moved to Chicago and took a job waiting tables while I applied for jobs in marketing. I thought it would be a means to an end—just a way to earn some cash while I figured things out. I kind of fell in love with the restaurant scene, so I enrolled in culinary school."

"You're a chef?"

"No, I'm a sommelier."

He snorts. "You get paid to drink wine all day?"

"You have your dream job, and I have mine."

"Yours sounds like it's infinitely more enjoyable."

"I have no doubt about that," I say, laughing.

"Do you wear a fancy cup around your neck?"

"A tastevin? I bust one out on occasion. They're fun."

"Do they serve a purpose?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "Not since the discovery of electricity."

"If wine is your thing, why are you drinking Jack Daniels?"

"We're on an airplane. I don't have to see the wine list to know it sucks."

"Smart woman." He looks down, swishing his scotch around his glass. "Are you happy?"

"Yes..." What I'm about to say will give him all the power, and I know him well enough to understand what he'll do with it. But I may never see him again, and this could be the only chance I'll ever have. "...but I've missed you."

He answers with his eyes closed. "Your actions over the past ten years would imply otherwise."

"You think I'm lying about being happy? Let's review: I drink wine for a living. Does life get better than that?"

"No, I think you're lying about having missed me."

"My reasons for leaving you had nothing to do with my feelings for you. I thought you understood that."

"I understood perfectly. It was either you or my career. You made yourself quite clear."

"You're over-simplifying it."

"Am I?" He shakes his head. "I don't want to spend what little time we have here rehashing what happened that Christmas—that's not why I upgraded your ticket."

"Why _did_ you upgrade my ticket?"

"I miss you. For so long, I thought I'd never get a chance to see you again. Then I saw you standing in line. You're even more beautiful now than you were then, do you know that? I couldn't let you walk away from me again, even unwittingly."

"When I told you I was leaving, you acted like you didn't care," I say in a whisper so my voice won't betray me. My efforts prove futile; my voice cracks anyway.

"I know I did."

"I don't understand you, nor do I trust you."

"You have no reason not to trust me."

"I have every reason not to trust you. You lie for a living."

"I'm a United States Senator," he moans indignantly.

"Exactly."

"I tried to find you after you left, but no one would tell me where you went. I know I told you I wouldn't do that, but that was before I knew what it would be like to live without you. I've kept the same cell number and email address to this day so you'd have a means to contact me, just in case you changed your mind, if you'd decided you acted that day on anger or haste. If I'd known that Christmas what I know now..."

"It wouldn't have made a difference."

"It _would_ have," he insists before adding in a whisper, "I would have chosen you."

I wish I could believe him.

The flight attendant takes our glasses and asks if she could bring us anything else before we begin our descent into Washington. Declining, we sit in silence until after the plane has landed.

"Bella..." It's the first time today he'd uses his nickname for me.

"I heard you, but I don't see how that changes anything. Besides, I'm not available."

"Are you seeing someone?"

I fight the urge to laugh. I haven't been out on a date in months, but my romantic availability to others has very little impact on whether or not I'm emotionally prepared to go there with him. As far as I know, my reason for ending our relationship still exists—now more than ever. No matter how much I miss him, I know where things will eventually lead. Though I managed to survive losing him once, I'm fairly sure a second time would break me.

"No, just over it." I'm not, of course. What I am is terrified.

"In that case..." He unfastens his seat belt and rises to his feet before retrieving his laptop bag from the overhead compartment.

My Edward's gone; Senator Cullen has appeared in his place.

The flight attendant waits for him, holding his jacket. He puts it on, then extends his hand to me. "Thank you for your time, Isabella. I always enjoy touching base with my constituents."

I shake it tentatively, then he's gone.


	3. Amaretto Sour

to doctor m, with love

* * *

**_Chapter Two_**

**_Amaretto Sours_**

* * *

**September 29, 1995**  
**Washington D.C.**

"I've never kissed a girl."

As anticipated, all the guys in our room raise their drinks to their lips. What surprises me is that half the girls do as well. I stare at the tall, plastic cup in my hand. It's been an hour since Alice, my roommate, poured three shots of amaretto and filled the rest with sour mix and ice.

My cup is just as full now as it was then.

Only I could end up co-hosting a drinking party where the chosen game almost guarantees that I'll go to bed sober. Sighing, I rotate my wrist and watch the amber liquid swirl around against the inside of the cup. The room is strangely quiet, so I look up. Everyone is focused on me.

Alice pokes my arm. "It's your turn."

"To drink?"

"You know...say something you've never done."

"I've never done much of anything, including get drunk. And you know what? If the questions stay sexual, I never will."

"We'll skip Izzy," Alice says. "That brings us back to me. Hmmm..." Her eyes brighten, and her smile turns evil. "I've never had a crush on my roommate's brother."

I raise the cup to my lips, and when the liquid enters my mouth, I'm surprised by how sweet it is. I'm so happy to be able to finally take a drink, I don't care what I've just owned.

It's not as if it's a secret worth keeping. Even if it were, no one in the room knows him except Alice and me, so it's not as if there's any risk of him finding out. It doesn't matter anyway. Edward barely acknowledges me, and then it's only because I live with his sister.

A few hours and several drinks later, our room clears out. I kick off my shoes and head to the bathroom. I don't think I'm drunk, but I'm not sure I'd know it if I were. What I do feel is warm, happy. The stuff I worry about is still there, but it's fuzzy, and it doesn't seem all that important. In fact, _everything _is fuzzy, and nothing seems all that important.

As I brush my teeth, I wonder if maybe I _am_ drunk, and how I could know for sure. I don't think about it too long, though, because I need to wash my face. Bending over the sink without falling into it seems to require all of my attention. After I pat myself dry, I linger in front of the mirror.

I'm pretty enough, I guess. Nothing about my looks stand out, but I have nice hair and eyelashes. Both are long and thick. My face is rounder than I'd like, but my mother insists there are cheekbones in there somewhere, and that eventually it'll thin out. Then again, she also told me my boobs would be bigger than an A-cup. Since that hasn't happened, I'm not holding my breath as I wait for a natural improvement in bone structure. I take my index fingers and pull the flesh of my cheeks taut, trying to imagine how I'd look. Though I can't picture myself with a more angular face, I _do_ realize why I'm staring at myself—and it scares me.

There's something wrong with my skin. Usually, my complexion is pale enough to make the Goth girls jealous, but tonight it's...well...not. It's ruddy and blotchy, like I've over-exerted myself. Except I haven't. Panicked, I hurry back to our room, wanting to ask Alice if she can see it, too.

Still in her clothes, Alice is stretched out on top of her bed, hugging a stuffed animal of Baby Simba to her chest.

"Does my skin look weird to you?" I ask.

She sits up and squints at me. "Should it?"

"Never mind."

"Ugh," she groans, looking at the clock. "It's already past two. I don't want to get up, but I know I'll wake up with six dozen zits if I don't at least wash my face." She tosses Simba aside and rises to her feet, which slide right out of under her. She falls back onto her bed in a fit of giggles. "Okay, I can do this. Help me up."

I hold out my hands to her and pull her to her feet. Despite the fact I'm tipsy, it's easy—Alice weighs almost nothing. She takes a deep breath as she straightens her posture. I keep my arms extended in front of me so I can catch her if she falls.

"I'm good," she insists, after steadying herself. "I'm going to take a shower."

I wait for her to make it out of the room before I flop onto my bed. By the time the phone rings, I'm already asleep. Its bell sounds in two quick pulses, indicating whomever is calling is doing so from off-campus.

"Hello?" I answer, slurring the two syllables.

"Isabella?"

It's a male voice—deep and sexy. I'm not sure whose it is, but I want to snuggle up to it.

"Mmmm. You sound yummy."

"I sound yummy," he repeats. "Is that even possible? I mean, to the best of my knowledge, tastebuds aren't at all connected to auditory senses."

"They can be."

"Really?" He laughs. "How?"

"By sucking on an earlobe. Duh."

"Oh. And based on your earlier statement, am I to assume this something you'd like to do to me?"

"Yes..I mean...no. Maybe?"

"Now there's an answer that isn't at all open to interpretation."

"I'd like to lick your voice; it's pretty. I might want to lick your other things, except I don't know who this is."

"It's Edward."

"Sure, it is. God," I wail, pulling my scrunchie out of my hair. "Even my dreams are lame."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm drunk."

"Okay."

"At least, I _think_ I'm drunk. I'm not even sure, because until tonight I never drank. I don't know. Maybe I _am_ drunk. My skin looks weird, and I'm having strange-though-pathetic dreams. I mean, I'm talking about how much I want to lick you. This is my dream, right? Reality is non-issue."

"In practice or in theory?"

"Does it matter? Theoretically, I should have part of you in my mouth right now. But no! Instead, we're having a _conversation_. Do you know why that is?"

"Because I called my sister?"

"Uh-uh. Because I wouldn't even know _how_ to suck a guy's earlobe, therefore, I'm incapable of dreaming about it. It's totally humiliating."

"Not if no one finds out about it."

"True," I concede. "Maybe I'll won't even remember this when I wake up. That would be awesome. Then it will be as if this never happened."

"Unless I decide to remind you."

"Maybe."

"Has Alice heard any of this?"

"About how I want to lick your earlobe?"

No, this conversation."

"No. She's in the shower, I think."

"Right. Do you think you can remember to tell her I called?"

"Probably not."

"Fair enough," he says. "There's something else you can do for me, if you don't mind."

"As long as _I_ have a say in this, I'd rather do something to you."

"Do you have any water in your room?"

"Yes, in the fridge."

"Go get it."

"The cord won't reach."

"Put down the receiver; I'll wait for you."

I do as he says; I think I always will.

Faucet-filled bottle of Evian in hand, I hold the phone up to my ear with my shoulder. "Okay."

"I want you to drink it."

"Is this part of Alice's stupid 'I never' game?"

"Is that what you were playing earlier? God, I miss undergrad. No, this is to make sure you don't feel like hell when you wake up. You don't have to drink it all, but try to have a few big sips before you go back to sleep, okay?"

"You got it."

"Oh, and Isabella? I'd say I'm sorry for waking you up, except I'm not. Goodnight."

I plunk the phone back on the hook, chug some water, and curl back into bed. My next dream is more like a dream should be, even if it doesn't involve me putting my mouth on him. Instead, he puts his mouth on me. The only way it could get better is if it were real.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 21, 2009**  
**Washington Dulles Airport**

I'm last to exit the plane, even though I am seated at the front. The strong part of me, the stubborn part, the part that moved to Chicago on my own, says this is because I shouldn't take advantage of any perks I have because Edward decided to upgrade my ticket. The truth is that I'm too wrecked to move.

But I do move. I get up, and I walk through the jetway and into the terminal. I stop in the ladies' room and splash water on my face. There's a line at the hand dryers, so I wipe my hands on the front of my jeans. I'm about to leave when I notice my reflection in the mirror: blotchy skin, bloodshot eyes, lashes stuck together in clumps. It's not like me to care, but I do. My hands are shaking as I reapply my make-up, but somehow I manage a decent enough job with it. The result isn't good, but it beats the alternative. I'd rather not look how I feel. At the moment, I'd rather not feel at all.

I arrive at the luggage carousel to find Alice waiting. She jumps up and down when she sees me, clapping her hands in excitement. It's not how I thought it would be. Familial resemblance notwithstanding, I don't see Edward when I look at her. There's only Alice—my best female friend—whom I've missed beyond what I can express. She throws her arms around me and, when I finally allow myself to relax into her embrace, it's as if we've never been apart.

With my face against her hair, I take a deep breath.

"Lavender and vanilla," I say. "In a world of chaos, you are a constant."

"You sound like Edward." The moment the words are out of her mouth. "I'm sorry; I didn't think–"

"He's your brother. It's okay for you to say his name. I hear it all the time, you know? It's kind of unavoidable. Besides, he and I were on the same flight. He upgraded my ticket so he could sit next to me."

She takes a step back and looks at me. "You're kidding."

I shake my head.

"I want to hear all about it."

"I'll gladly fill you in, but I'd rather hear all about this Texan you're shacking up with."

"But if you need to talk–"

"What I _need_ is for this week not to be about my relationship with Edward. It's bad enough I let my feelings for him keep me away as long as I did. I can't change that, but I won't let it go on a second longer."

Her smile is huge as she hugs me for the second time in as many minutes.

"I'm thrilled to have you back."

The lights flash above the luggage carousel, and with battle-weary cacophony, it begins to move. Its noise prohibits any conversation of value, so I focus on the arriving suitcases. After a few go by, I look past the bags themselves to the apparatus on which they ride. It's gray and twisty—dirty even. People only go near it because they have baggage they can't live without. It's only after the last suitcase is claimed that its motor rests—alone, empty, and already forgotten by everyone who's seen it.

Just as Edward's already forgotten he's seen me.


	4. Coffee of the Virgin Variety

This story is for Elizabeth440, who commissioned it during last year's Fandom Gives Back auction.

This chapter is for every woman who has ever given up part of her body to save her life.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Coffee of the Virgin Variety  
**

* * *

**September 30, 1995**

My head is throbbing when I open my eyes. I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry, my throat muscles stiffen in protest. I may not have been drunk last night, but it's safe to say I drank too much. I take my time as I sit up, fearful my body will come apart if I move too quickly. Despite the laws of physics, it feels as if it might.

I glance across the room to see if Alice is awake, but she's not here. I panic, thinking something awful happened to her in the shower. But the sight of Simba sitting on top of Alice's neatly made bed implies she came back after I was asleep and left before I woke. I glance at my alarm clock; it's well past noon. I get out of bed and strip out of my pajamas, hoping a shower will make me feel human. With a towel wrapped around my body, I grab my bucket of toiletries and head to the bathroom.

As far as showers go, this is the best one I've ever taken—quite a statement given the decided lack of privacy of my dorm's communal bathrooms. Not only is the water pressure pure bliss, but the steamy heat soothes my muscles. When I open the door to my room, I almost feel alive. Then I see a head of thick, auburn hair bent over Alice's computer keyboard, and I want to die.

Even Edward's back is beautiful. Without his face to distract me, I'm able to focus on his broad shoulders and the long elegance of his fingers as they wrap themselves around a paper coffee cup.

I could watch him forever if I weren't standing in the hallway naked except for a towel. As much as I don't want to, I take a deep breath, step inside my room, and pull the door closed behind me. Guys seem to like wet skin, and I'm showing tons of it. I just have to act like I'm cool with this, that I feel sexy. Ever so quietly, I put my shower caddy on the floor beside my feet, which are still adorned with the rubber sandals I wear in the shower to avoid catching the plague. The flops have nubs on their insoles that massage my feet as I walk. They feel good, but they're about as far from sexy as you can get.

I give up.

"What are you doing here?"

He swings the desk chair to face me and smiles "Well, hello there. Alice thought you were at the library; she went over there to find you. I'm just here to zap her PRAM. I should be out of your way in a few minutes."

I don't know what he's talking about, but it sounds like something I'd rather him do to me.

"Given the fact you two are siblings, isn't that illegal?"

He laughs. "Cute."

I'm wearing nothing but a towel in a room with the star of all my fantasies; I don't know how I want him to see me, but it sure as hell isn't 'cute.' For the briefest of moments, I wonder how he'd react if I dropped my towel, but I push the thought away. I could never be that forward with someone I wasn't dating. Who am I kidding? I doubt I could ever be that forward with someone I_was_ dating.

"Apparently," he says, "Alice sad macked yesterday. This was the big emergency she mentioned on my answering machine, and what compelled me to call you at two a.m. Sorry for waking you up, by the way."

"When did you wake me up?"

"Last night when I called. It seemed as if you'd been sleeping."

"Huh. I don't remember any of it. I must have been drunk."

"Oh, you were."

"Was it that obvious?"

He just smiles.

"Fuck," I mutter.

"I would have known you'd been drinking even if you hadn't told me, which you did. Wait, that's not exactly true. You said you thought you were drunk, but you weren't sure because you'd never drank before."

My face feels hot even though I'm cold. Clutching my towel with one hand, I raise the other to my cheek, hoping it will cool my face enough that my mortification is no longer quite so obvious.

"You shouldn't be embarrassed about anything you said to me last night," he says.

"There was more?"

"Yes." He doesn't elaborate; instead, he turns back to Alice's computer.

Seconds later, I hear the familiar sound of an Apple booting.

"See that?" Edward's back is to me as he points to the monitor. "It's a happy Mac again. My work here is done."

He rises to his feet, and walks toward the door. I step out of his way, but he's close enough to me that I get a whiff of him. He smells like coffee and dryer sheets, but for some reason, I think of sex.

"Nice seeing more of you." He smiles, and he's gone.

Despite the presence of massaging nubs, I think he might have been flirting with me.

**-o-0-o-**

**November 21, 2009**  
**Late Evening**

"It doubles as my home studio," Alice explains as she leads me into the room in which I'll be staying. "I don't do much work in it, but it's not uncommon for me to meet with clients in here. It's more normal that way."

"Is that how fashion designers work these days?" I plop onto the bed and turn to my side, propping my head up with my hand. "Conducting business in a boudoir is normal?"

"My clients seem to prefer it; they find it less daunting. Women come here and have a glass of wine. I lay out various clothing options on the bed, and we talk about style for a bit. I take notes and make some sketches. It feels more like getting fashion advice from a girlfriend than ordering clothing from a designer specializing in custom garments for women who've lost parts of their bodies."

"That honestly never occurred to me."

"It wouldn't have occurred to me if not for my mother. I remember the first time she needed to attend a company party after her mastectomy. It was the first time I'd ever seen her cry. I couldn't understand why that made her so upset—why she didn't fear death as much as she feared she wouldn't find a cocktail dress that made her feel pretty and feminine. I was eleven years old. I had no comprehension of sexuality or femininity, so I couldn't grasp the connection. All I knew was that I didn't have breasts, and _I_ still felt like a girl."

"Maybe that's why I can't walk in heels," I joke, hoping to make her smile. "My breasts never grew."

"Mine grew eventually; I just chose to get rid of them." She points to her boobs then moves her index and middle finger as if they were scissors.

"Wait, what?" It's rude of me to stare at her chest, but I can't help it. My eyes focus on their own. "Did you have a breast reduction?"

"No. I had a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy and oophorectomy."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I had my girly parts removed to reduce my risk of cancer."

"When?"

"Two years ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I regret the words as soon as I say them. "Never mind; forget I said that. I didn't mean for it to come out that way."

I want to tell her that I hate myself for putting my weakness around Edward before my love for her, but it's not the time. The last thing I want to do is make this about me. The ensuing silence is awkward as I search my mind for the right words, but infinitely preferable to creating unintentional wounds. I sit up and extend my hands to her. She takes them, and when I give a gentle tug, she slides onto the bed beside me.

She doesn't say it, but she doesn't have to—I can see it on her face. Though it's been years—though I no longer deserve her love, I don't doubt that I have it. I know what I need to say, what she needs to hear. I also know that once I do, it will all be behind us.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. It was selfish and shallow, and I don't deserve your forgiveness. Nothing I can say would ever come close to justifying staying away from you for as long as I did. But I'm here now, and I love you. If you want to talk about it, I'll listen and if you don't, I won't push."

Her eyes are wet as she pulls me into her arms. It isn't long before mine are, too. Time passes; I'm not sure how much. It doesn't matter. I could stay here forever in the quiet contentment of knowing I have my sister back. When Alice breaks the silence, it's as if we've never been apart.

"I'd rather know what happened on the plane," she says. "That couldn't have been easy for you."

"Talking about your health is more important."

"As far as my current health is concerned, there's nothing to discuss. It's fine. Things were rough for a while, but I got through them. Judging by the way you looked when I first saw you at baggage claim, things are rough for you now."

"It's not a big deal. He's your brother; I knew there was a chance I'd run into him at some point this week."

"Then why were you crying? Don't punish yourself for not being there when I needed you by not letting me be here for you now."

"That's not what I'm doing. Besides, running into an ex-boyfriend on an airplane is not exactly on par with the prophylactic removal of your female stuff."

"For you it is."

"I don't see how."

"Because it's that one thing you fear so much that rational thought ceases to be possible."

Alice understands me better than I understand myself; she knows exactly what's coming when I let it go.

So I do.

The energy I'd been putting into retaining my composure leaves me in salty wet streaks. My body loses all rigidity as the familiar taste rolls over my lip into my mouth. I take in as much air as I can, then let it out in measured gusts, willing myself to calm down. My breathing returns to normal, and soon the only evidence of my breakdown is a make-up stain on Alice's pillow sham.

"I saw a glimpse of him, and he's real. I thought when I left...I thought I'd never seen him again."

"Surely you see him on the news–"

"That's Senator Cullen; I'm talking about Edward."

"You make it sound as if they're two separate people."

"Aren't they?"

With narrowed eyes, she takes a quick breath and opens her mouth. A second or two later, her facial features relax and she exhales, shaking her head.

"I still love who he was," I say. "I always will. I just can't handle what he's become. And seeing him switch so effortlessly between the two makes me wonder if any of what we had was real."

"If it wasn't, I don't know what is."

"You and Jasper," I say, smiling.

"He was the one to convinced me to have it done—you know, the test that tells you if you've inherited the gene mutation that causes cancer. He knew how scared I was that I wouldn't live to see forty. He thought the results would put my mind at ease, and I'd find out my odds were the same as everyone else's."

"Except they weren't."

"No," she says, laughing. "As it turned out, this was one area where my neurosis was fully justified. I knew right away I wanted to go through with the surgery. My only concern was how Jasper would perceive me afterward—that even if I managed to still feel sexy, he wouldn't see me that way. I'm not going to say it wasn't an adjustment for us, but things are better now than ever."

"I can't wait to meet him."

"You will." She sits up and rolls off the bed onto her feet. "His flight arrives late tonight, but he should be here when you wake up. He wanted to fix his travel schedule to be here when your plane landed, but it didn't work out." She covers her mouth and yawns. "I should let you get some rest; you must be exhausted."

On her way to the door, she pauses in front of a one-armed dressform. "They won't weird you out, will they?"

"I'm not that shallow."

"Oh, I don't mean because of what they're meant to resemble. Some people can't deal." She shrugs. "They turn off the lights and get sleepy. Then they see a silhouette of a mannequin and freak because they think someone's watching them."

I throw my head back, laughing at the irony. "As if that would happen. I can't remember the last time someone watched me sleep."

"That used to be the only time I'd let a guy really look at me. If I was unconscious, I couldn't be self-conscious, you know? Anyway, if you get creeped out, let me know. We'll figure something out. You're going to be with us for a week; I want to make sure you're comfortable." She walks over to the door. "Sweet dreams."

"Goodnight, Alice. Thanks for everything."

She smiles and pulls the door closed behind her.

By the time I unpack and wash up, I feel like the walking dead. I turn down the covers and climb into bed, then turn off the bedside lamp. Alice was right—I feel as if I'm not alone. The difference is I'm not uncomfortable. Instead, I relish in the bizarre camaraderie I share with the figures around me. Nothing in this room is whole.

I close my eyes and tell myself sleep will be my salvation, believing that if I silence my mind, I won't think of Edward. Miraculously, for a while I don't.

* * *

_**Thank you for reading. Now go feel your boobies.**_


	5. Truth Serum

**Chapter Four**

**Truth Serum  
**

* * *

**October 1, 1995**

"Are you okay?" Alice asks.

I'm grateful she's heard my end of the phone conversation, because I don't want to repeat any of it. Though I don't doubt my parents' divorce is real, there's a level of finality in saying it out loud I don't think I'm ready for. I throw myself on my bed and cry until my head throbs and I've run out of tears. When I sit up to blow my nose, Alice is sitting cross-legged on her bed, hugging Simba to her chest.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. "Not really. I just can't believe it. Last week they call to tell me they're painting the kitchen. This week they say they're putting the house up for sale. My mom's moving to Arizona. My dad is—get this—living with his best friend's widow while swearing up and down their relationship is..." I raise my hands and curl my middle and index fingers as if they were quotation marks. "'...not like that.'"

"It should make for an interesting Thanksgiving."

"I wouldn't know; they told me not to come home. Oh my god, Alice." I cover my eyes with my hands and thread my fingertips through the roots of my hair, groaning. "The dorms are closed over Thanksgiving Break, and I missed the deadline for special housing. I don't have anywhere to go. While the rest of word is eating pumpkin pie, I'll be sleeping on a cardboard box at the Metro."

"You're not going to end up sleeping in a box."

"You're right. I'm little; someone will beat me up and steal it."

"If everything else falls through, you could always crash at Edward's apartment. I know he won't mind."

"No one in his right mind would be okay with letting a stranger stay in his apartment while he was in another state."

"You're not a stranger; you're my friend. Besides, he's staying in D.C., so he'd be there, too. You'd have to deal with his Type-A bullshit—his place is so small there's no way you could avoid it."

I do my best to imagine what spending a week alone with Edward would be like. I want to think it'll turn into something similar to the trashy romance novels I used to sneak into the Hallmark aisle to read while my mom did the grocery shopping, but I can't see it happening. Hard as I try, I don't see him shirtless on his knees before me licking my cleavage; I just see myself being a really big imposition.

"On second thought," she continues, "maybe a cardboard box _would_ be better."

She means it to be funny, so I fake a laugh. But my feigned emotion causes its genuine counterpart to resurface, and the next thing I know, I'm crying again.

"I still can't believe it."

"Had they seemed happy?" she asks.

"No—that's the crazy thing. They got married because my mom was pregnant with me. They never liked each other very much. I'm not upset they're divorcing. I'm more..." I shake my head. "This is going to sound awful..."

"Go ahead; I won't judge."

"They were miserable, right? It was obvious to me for as long as I can remember. So when my mom said they'd only been staying together for me—that otherwise they would have done this years ago—that made me feel like shit. And what for? How did it help me?"

"I think they thought it would be easier on you if you didn't have to see it happen, but they're delusional—that just makes it easier on them."

"How old were you when your parents got divorced?"

"My parents never got divorced."

"Oh." I don't understand, but I don't ask for details. I've often heard Alice refer to her father's wife, but I've never heard her mention her mother.

"My mom died when I was twelve."

"I'm sorry." I feel like an asshole. "I knew you had a stepmother, and I just assumed–"

"It's okay." She stares straight ahead for a moment, not really focused on anything. "It's an easy mistake. Divorce is more common than dying in your thirties."

"I meant that I was sorry for your loss."

"Yeah." She hunches over and crushes Simba against her chest. "Thanks."

Though Alice is tiny to begin with, curled into a ball like that she takes up even less space than usual. She's in the same position I was only moments before, but somehow on her it's worse—maybe because she's usually so bubbly and upbeat.

When she sits up, she's herself again. She tucks her chin-length black bob behind her ears and leans forward onto her elbows.

"I need a distraction. Tell me a secret."

Wanting to make her smile, I blurt out the most embarrassing thing I can think of.

"When Edward was zapping your PRAM yesterday, I briefly considered dropping my towel."

"You like him; that's normal. I want to hear something shocking, like something you're totally ashamed of."

"I'm more upset that I'll never sleep in my old room again than I am that my parents are getting divorced. My diaries are hidden under a loose floorboard, and I'd kind of like them back. If I tell either of my parents to get them for me, they'll read them. They'd kill me for some of the things in there."

She laughs and throws Simba at me.

"What?" I ask.

"You're eighteen years old. You've never been kissed, until two days ago you'd never had a drink, and you graduated high school with a perfect grade-point average. What could possibly be in your diary that would make your parents flip out?"

"There's some stuff," I insist. "I don't know. My mom is religious; she'd blow a gasket if she knew I even thought about sex. The idea that I want to have it at some point before I die would probably send her over the edge."

"You're thousands of miles away from her. What's she going to do to you—take away your phone privileges?"

"You asked for something I was ashamed of; you didn't say it had to make sense to you."

"True. But as far as dirt goes, that's pretty lame."

"Maybe by your standards, prep-school party girl. The typical high-school experience is more mundane. Anyway, now that I've humiliated myself, it's your turn."

"I have nothing to share."

"Yeah, right."

"It's true. You know very well nothing embarrasses me."

"Uh-uh," I say, shaking my head. "You're not getting out of this—fair is fair. It doesn't have to be something you're ashamed of, just something juicy I don't already know."

"Okay." She sits up and takes an exaggerated breath. "But you're not allowed to get mad at me because _you_ asked..."

"Duly noted."

"That whole Edward seeing you in your towel thing? I might have intentionally made myself scarce so you two would be alone together. I figured you were in the bathroom because your Docs were next to the door, but I didn't realize you were in the shower. Setting it up so Edward would see you naked is over the top—even for me."

She puts her hands over her face, bracing herself in case I start throwing things at her.

Except I don't. I'm not angry—just a bit confused. She spreads her fingers and peeks through them, and when she sees I'm in the exact position I was before, she relaxes her posture and exhales.

"Why would you do that?"

"I have a feeling Edward would like you if he got to know you, that you'd be good for him. This isn't something I advertise because I know how weird it sounds, but sometimes I have premonitions about things." She shrugs. "This is one of them."

I don't want to laugh at her, but I can't help it.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm waiting for Dionne Warwick to pop out of our closet and tell me that for four dollars a minute, I can find out what I got on my philosophy paper."

"I'm serious, Izzy. It doesn't happen often, and I can't predict when it will. All I know is that whenever I've had a gut feeling like this, I'm usually right."

"Okay, then." I don't believe her, but I'm willing to play along. "Let's hear some examples."

"When my mom died, I knew my dad would remarry within the year. I knew Edward would hate his new wife, and he'd stop coming home on holidays. When I got the letter in the mail with my room assignment, I knew you and I would be great friends. I know I'll die of cancer like my mother..." Her voice breaks. She takes a deep breath, then swallows with such force the muscles in her throat flex visibly. "...and when I do, I'll be even younger than she was."

I say the only thing I can think of that might comfort her. "Precognition goes against what science knows is true. It isn't possible for effects to precede their causes."

"Do you believe in god?"

"Yes."

"Science can't prove _he_ exists."

I can't argue with her logic.

"I want you to be wrong," I say.

"Me, too."

The next time the phone rings, I'm in bed but not yet asleep. I've had enough bad news for one day and because the caller is from off-campus, I think it's probably more of the same. Since Alice isn't here to answer it, I let the answering machine pick up. Expecting my mother's voice after the beep, I pull my comforter over my head in a vain attempt to block her out. But I hear Edward's voice instead and I'm happy my effort was futile.

"Good evening, ladies. No, Alice, I'm not calling to scare away any guys you may have in your room. I just got home from training for UFC 8, and since I have a few minutes before heading out to the shooting range for target practice, I thought I'd–"

I pick up the phone, laughing. "Alice is in the bathroom; it's just me. So your over-protective brother thing, while amusing, is a waste of effort."

"But it made you smile."

"It did."

"Then it's worth it. Anyway, I'm glad Alice isn't there; I called to talk to you. I'm sorry to hear about your parents."

"How did you know?"

"Alice emailed me. I know you and I don't know each other well, but I'm here if you want to talk. I have a pretty good idea how you're feeling right now–"

"I can't imagine how." It comes out more abruptly than I would like, but what he's saying doesn't gel well with what I know of his history.

"My mother died while I was away at prep school," he explains. "So while the circumstances were different, I know how it feels to have the home you knew and loved disappear without warning."

I feel like an asshole.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I know it's trite and something you're probably sick to death of hearing..."

"Thank you," he says. "I understand you need a place to stay over Thanksgiving–"

"I'm going to kill your sister."

He laughs. "She has issues with boundaries, there's no doubt. In this case, though, she's doing the right thing. I don't have a lot of space, but if you're willing to make it work for a week, I am, too. There's one condition."

_Yes, I'm willing to make out with you._

"Okay," I say.

"Do you know how to cook a turkey?"

I start to think maybe it's going to be okay.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

Jasper's not like I expect him to be, which is silly, because I'm not sure what I expected. He's very quiet but seems warm enough. I hope he's just shy—then I'd have reason to believe that though he may be reserved around me now, he won't always be. Then I remember he's one of Edward's closest friends—that's how Alice met him. As much as I want him to like me, I understand why he wouldn't. I abandoned the two people he loves most. If I were him, I wouldn't have much to say to me, either.

"Did you sleep all right?"

Alice's voice startles me. My cheeks heat up and my eyes focus on the grocery list I was making, feeling very much like a high-school student who'd just been scolded for day-dreaming.

"Wonderfully," I say, smiling.

"You seem a little out of it."

"I was just thinking about to serve on Thursday—that is, if you still want me to cook."

"As long as you don't mind."

"Are you kidding? I'd love to." _After everything I've put you through, it's the least I can do._

"We'll be happy to eat whatever you'd like to make."

"Great." I scribble what I need to prepare the same meal I made Edward our first Thanksgiving together—something about it just feels right.


	6. Off Dry Spätlese

I don't own _Twilight_.

For Elizabeth440.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**Off-Dry Spätlese**

* * *

**November 21, 1995**

Edward and I have been alone for an hour now, and though it's not as awkward as I thought it would be, I still can't relax. He's too distracting, and not just because he's so beautiful that watching him has become my latest compulsion. I feel things when I'm around him I can't explain, except that they're exciting and different and way too good not to be wrong. Part of me wants to fight them, but I don't. Instead, I pay attention to the way his eyes change shades of green depending on what he's wearing, the strength of his jawline, and the way his hair becomes almost fiery in the sunlight. Just being near him does things to me—there's a tingling deep in my belly that makes it next to impossible for me to focus on anything else—including normal, everyday things like walking.

Distracted by the perfect bubble of his butt, I fall flat on my face in the stairwell of his apartment building.

"Fuck," I mutter, breaking my fall with my hands.

He helps me to my feet before carefully inspecting my palms for damage. It's the first time he's touched me, and I'm finding it hard to breathe. When he asks me a question, the words don't register—all I'm able to process is the feeling of his hands on mine. His skin isn't rough, but it's not soft, either. He feels warm and touches me with a confidence I doubt I'll ever possess. My eyes go back to his face, and he seems like he's waiting for me to say something, so I do.

My words bypass my internal filter. "You have long fingers."

His eyes narrow slightly, and his cheeks twitch near his mouth. I know he's fighting the urge to smile.

"Lots of things I have are long."

Before I can think better of it, I look at his crotch. Realizing that wouldn't tell me anything about length, my eyes drop to his thighs, searching for evidence of pant-leg penis. I'm squinting at his fly when he starts to laugh, and though I know he practically dared me to check out his junk, I'm almost as embarrassed as I was the time shoulder pads fell out of my bra in ninth-grade gym class. Unable to look at him, I close my eyes and try to ignore the fact my face is on fire.

"I'm sorry; I shouldn't tease you like that."

"If you're sorry, why are you laughing?" I ask.

"Because I lied."

"About being sorry or about your..." I can't bring myself to say it. Eyes still closed, I angle my head toward his equipment.

"I'm not sorry. Let's get you inside."

As I follow him the rest of the way up the steps, I want nothing more than a minute or two to compose myself. Then he opens his front door, and I know it won't happen. After dropping his keys onto the small kitchen counter, he places my bag on his bed. It's the only padded surface in his apartment.

"Let me show you where everything is."

It's a strange statement given the fact his place isn't much bigger than my dorm room, and everything appears to be in plain sight. I go along with it anyway, because it's him.

"That would be great."

"The bathroom's in there," he says, gesturing to a door on the other side of the kitchen. "There are towels under the sink. Feel free to make yourself at home. Eat and drink whatever you want, use the phone, computer, whatever."

Frozen in place right inside the door, I nod like a tool. He takes a breath and opens his mouth, but instead of speaking, he empties his lungs all at once, shrugging his shoulders.

"You didn't hurt yourself when you fell, did you?"

"Uh-uh." I shake my head.

"Is something wrong?"

I don't know how to say that though there isn't anything wrong, everything is different. So I don't say anything. I don't tell him I'm thrilled to be staying in such cramped quarters with him—even if he is just having me here as a favor to Alice. I don't admit that the idea of sleeping in his bed scares me, but not as much as the possibility he may not want me there.

I don't mention that even though I'm too afraid of rejection to tell him I like him, I wish I'd packed cuter pajamas. Then I realize I don't even _own_ any decent pajamas, but I want to buy some because he makes me want to feel pretty and sleep in sexy things.

I don't tell him any of this—I'm not sure I understand it myself. I need some time without him to process how I feel when I'm _with_ him, but given the layout of his apartment, I know that isn't possible. Unless...

"I need to pee!"

He points to the bathroom for the second time in as many minutes. "Right over there."

I nod, but I stay where I am.

"Do you need help?"

My eyes widen in horror, and I run to the bathroom. "No!" I yell, slamming the door behind me. Lock in place, I'm able to exhale. The fan starts to hum the moment I flick the light switch, and though I can't hear anything but white noise, I'm pretty sure Edward's laughing at me.

When I come out of the bathroom, he's lying on his bed reading a well-worn copy of _Profiles in Courage_.

"Is it okay if I..." I gesture to the empty space next to him. "I mean, I know there's a connotation..."

"Not when there isn't anywhere else to sit," he says.

"True." I sit on the edge of the bed and unlace my boots. I feel self-conscious—I don't want to throw a disclaimer on the implied significance of sharing his bed. In the absence of any better ideas, I go for smalltalk.

"So you're a first-year law student?" It's a ridiculous question. Not only do I _know_ he is, but he knows I _know _he is. But I've never been in bed with a boy, and even though we're fully clothed and nothing is going to happen, I don't know how to act.

"Yes."

"Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?" I stretch out beside him, and though there's about a foot of space between us, my body responds to his proximity anyway. I feel like I'm doing something forbidden. There's a nervous excitement in the pit of my stomach, the likes of which I haven't felt since I was twelve and riding the Gravitron, and one of my idiot friends convinced me to do a handstand just as the centrifugal force started to push my body against the wall. Then, I wasn't sure if I liked the rush; now I have no doubt.

I freaking love it.

"Not exactly. I've always wanted to be President." Leaving his book open, he places it face-down on the bed. "Law school is a logical place to start."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Huh." I'm not sure what to say.

"This surprises you."

"Well, yeah," I admit. "I've never known an adult who wanted to be President."

He smiles. "That means I'll have less competition. I know it's a crazy dream, and I'm willing to accept failure—but only if I know I gave it everything I had."

"Alice was right; you are type-A."

"Tell me, Isabella." He turns onto his side and props his head up with his hand. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Are you implying I'm not a grown-up?" I don't care how Edward sees me, as long as it isn't as a child.

"Well–"

"My parents didn't even want me home for Thanksgiving. I think it's safe to say I'll be on my own from here on out. As far as my career aspirations are concerned, I don't know. Whatever pays the bills, I guess."

"That's depressing. Not that you can't go home to your parents—that happens to most people eventually—but that you feel you needed them in order to have choices. There are always options. You may have to compromise a bit, but you shouldn't stop dreaming."

"Believe me, I still dream."

"Of what?"

I dream of him, but I won't tell him that.

"Nothing that will ever happen in reality."

"Then forget realism. Forget your sense of responsibility. What do you want?"

I answer before I can think better of it.

"I want you to kiss me."

"Seriously?"

"I _was_ serious; now I seriously want to die. Forget I said anything."

Except he doesn't. His hands cup my face as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and he closes the space between us. Even after his lips are pressed against mine, I still can't believe it's happening. I wasn't expecting this, and that's good—my shock outweighs my performance anxiety. I'm too busy trying to convince myself his kiss is real to worry that I may be kissing him the wrong way. By the time I accept that I am indeed experiencing my first kiss, it's over.

And I already want him to kiss me again.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

"I thought the plan was to have a light lunch."

"We are." I smile at Alice as I arrange some crostini on a platter. "Just some cheese and bread—and wine, of course."

"Then why did you make apple-pie filling?"

"It went into the brie en croute. I'm chilling some Riesling to go with it. It's an off-dry Spätlese; I think you'll like it."

"Where wine is concerned, I defer to your expert–" She stops when we hear the front door open. "That must be Jazz; I'll be right back."

Contentedly, I return to the task at hand. Cooking makes me feel connected to nature and humanity; cooking for people I love makes me feel connected to them. It's something I don't get to do often, so when I do, I go into a mental place where I do nothing more than savor the moment. I'm slicing a baguette when his voice startles me out of my zone.

"Hello, Isabella."

The bread knife slips, and I cut my hand.

"Ow!" I yell.

I drop the knife and shake my hand in the air before bringing my fingertips eye-level. Though the slit in my flesh is narrow, it's bleeding heavily. Keeping it elevated, I apply pressure to it with a dishtowel.

"I know where Alice keeps the first-aid kit," he says. "Let me clean it up and bandage it for you."

Before I can protest, he's gone into the pantry. When he returns, he's holding a small white box.

"I appreciate the gesture, Senator Cullen, but I think I need a doctor, not a politician."

"Healthcare is a very important issue for my office."

I roll my eyes at him, but he ignores me. Instead, he takes my hand in his and starts to clean my cut.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"My sister lives here, remember?"

Though his eyes are fixed on my hand, my eyes are fixed on him. Sighing, I fold my un-injured arm across my chest and wait for him to stop fucking around with gauze and first-aid tape so I can excuse myself.

"Oh, you mean why I am here despite the fact she asked me to make myself scarce this week? You should know me better than to ask that question, Isabella." After securing the bandage, his eyes meet mine. "I'm willing to accept failure, but only after I've given it everything I have."

"You already have," I remind him. "You told me as much the day I left you."

"I lied." Smiling, he vanishes as quickly as he'd appeared.

* * *

**_There have been some comments about my chapter length. My chapters have always been on average between 2k and 3k words, but you'll find I'm a frequent updater. Thanks for reading._**


	7. Vin de Garde

I don't own _Twilight._

Thanks to M._  
_

_

* * *

_

_**Chapter Six**_

_**Vin de Garde**_

_**

* * *

**_

**-o-O-o-**

**November 21, 1995**

Edward doesn't react to our kiss the same way I do—or if he does, I can't tell. When I open my eyes, he's smiling, but otherwise he seems unaffected.

"Now that we've gotten _that _out of the way, you can cross it off the list and come up with a new goal in life."

Though his tone is teasing, I know he thinks I'm ridiculous. I don't tell him that I already have and my new goal is for him to kiss me with tongue. He'd think I was a boy-crazy kid, and though I feel like one when I'm around him, it's not who I am.

The mattress bounces beneath me, and when I look up, Edward's gotten out of bed. After grabbing a pair of flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt from a dresser drawer, he turns back to me.

"We should probably discuss sleeping arrangements," he says.

"The floor is fine."

"Maybe for me, it is."

"Please. You're in law school. Surely you know that squatters have no rights–"

"As if you know squat about squatters."

"I know that's what I'm doing."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "You're my guest."

"Only because Alice put you on the spot."

"You don't know me very well—not at all, really—so you'll have to take my word for this. When I do something, it's either because I want to or because it's necessary to get where I want to be. I never do anything out of obligation, or because someone put me up to it."

"I appreciate your hospitality, but I'd never be able to sleep knowing you were on the floor because I was in your bed."

"Then I guess we're sharing the bed." He goes into the bathroom, and when he re-emerges a few minutes later, he's changed into his pajamas. "So, Isabella..." He stops when he notices I'm cringing. "Is something wrong?"

"Are you always so formal?"

"No." He smiles, creating five-o'clock-shadow-covered dimples. "I just didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable."

"It's your formality that's making me uncomfortable."

"Oh. Well, in that case..." His smile widens, and he takes off his shirt.

I try not to gawk at his chest, but it's hard not to, because his chest is so...well...hard. I want to touch it because I think it would feel the same way another part of his body feels when it's hard, but I know I'm not ready to touch _that_ yet. I mean, I can't even bring myself to make eye-contact with him now that he's shirtless. Instead, I study the rust-colored hair around his belly-button, wondering if it would feel soft or wiry against my skin.

"I hate wearing shirts to bed," he says.

Now that I've seen the alternative, I think I hate it, too.

"And though I also hate wearing pants to bed, I think under the circumstances I should just deal with it. And on that note, Isabella–"

"_That's_ what I was talking about," I explain. "The only other person who calls me Isabella is my father, and even then it's usually because I'm in trouble for something. Every time you address me by name, I think I just got busted for breaking curfew. Then I feel awkward and flustered and I inevitably embarrass myself."

"Do you do that often?"

"I embarrass myself more than you could possibly imagine."

"I meant disobey your parents."

I shake my head. "I'm a good girl."

"Somehow, I don't doubt that. This is your first time, isn't it?"

"It was."

His jaw drops.

"Why are you surprised?" I ask.

"I was asking if it tonight was your first time sharing a bed with a guy you hardly knew, not if what happened earlier was..."

"My first kiss?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well, it was. As far as your other question is concerned, I've never done that before, either."

He nods his head slowly, still seeming a little stunned. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"If I'd known that, I wouldn't have–"

"You wouldn't have kissed me?"

"Not then, and certainly not like that."

"Oh."

I'm afraid to ask him to elaborate. Instead, I pick up my bag and bring it into the bathroom with me. After I wash my face and brush my teeth, I study my reflection in the mirror. My hair is nice, but I can't be bothered to do anything with it besides throw it up in a scrunchy. It's a good thing I don't have pimples—my skin is so pale I'd never be able to find concealer in a light enough shade. My face is round, and my boobs are small. Now that I think about it, I look like a child. It's no wonder Edward thinks of me as one—and if I leave the bathroom wearing what I'd packed for me to sleep in, it will only get worse.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath.

"Is everything all right in there?"

Though I hadn't meant for him to hear me, I see this as a unique opportunity.

"Yes," I say. "Except I forgot to pack something to sleep in. Can I borrow a t-shirt or something?"

"Sure, no problem."

A few seconds later, he knocks on the door. I open it a crack, and he hands me a white, v-neck undershirt. It's not as seductive as lingerie would be, but it out-sexes my flannel sleepshirt. The fact it smells like him is an added bonus. I put it on, and try not to be bothered by the fact my nipples and my panties are plainly visible through its sheer fabric as I rejoin Edward in the other room.

"Isabella–"

"Would you please call me Izzy?"

"No," he says.

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't.

"Do you need anything from me?"

"I _need_ you to stop calling me Isabella."

"I meant before I go to sleep."

Something comes to mind, but I'm not sure if it qualifies as a need or a want. Then he yawns, stretching his arms above his head. The muscles around his nipples flex, and I no longer question the validity of my request.

"I need you to kiss me again."

He shakes his head, but moves toward me anyway. As soon as he's close enough for us to touch, the tiny hairs on my arms stand up, and my senses go into overload. He tucks my hair behind my ears, then brushes his hand across my forehead. When his lips replace his fingertips on my brow, I close my eyes in anticipation of what I know is coming.

Except it doesn't. I wait a few seconds, and still, there's nothing. When I open my eyes, Edward is getting into bed.

"Do you need me to leave a light on for you?" he asks.

"Uh-uh."

"Okay." He reaches for the switch on the lamp but instead of turning it off, he just looks at me.

"What?" I ask.

"Do you sleep standing up?"

"No."

"Then come to bed."

The way he says it makes it sound effortless, natural—as if it's _our_ bed and not only have we shared it countless times before, but there's no reason to doubt we won't again and again. Nothing about his tone indicates he _meant_ to let me down just now, but that doesn't matter because it's a rejection nonetheless. My ego wants me to sleep on the floor, but my mind knows I won't be comfortable enough there to get any rest. The rest of me—my heart, my body, and my girly bits—just want to be close to Edward, regardless of whether or not he wants to be close to me. So when he pulls back the covers, I can't help but slide into bed beside him.

He turns off the light and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"You think I didn't want to kiss you."

"Yes."

"You're wrong."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Because I don't think I would have been able to stop."

"I wouldn't mind if we spent the night kissing."

"I would," he says, laughing.

He pulls me into his arms, and I lean into him with my back against his chest and my butt against his...

Oh my god.

I think maybe the floor would have been the softer of my two options.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

It doesn't surprise me that Edward invites himself to stay for lunch. Alice is in the kitchen just long enough to whisper that she's sorry before Jasper and Edward stroll in behind her. Edward is cavalier to the point of cockiness, and while in the past I would have found it annoying, today I'm grateful for it. It grounds me and forces me to remember that none of my feelings for him have changed. Without this, I'd let love and heat consume me, just as they had before. We'd burn; I'd burn. The flames would extinguish themselves only when there was nothing left. I wouldn't cease to exist, but I'd die. I know it all too well—even if I mistook it for compromise at the time. I also know that without the luxury of naïvetè, it would hurt even more.

The four of us gather around the table to eat, and Edward is charming and witty. He's being who he always was, and I go out of my way to be who I've become without him. After identifying each of the cheeses, I pour the wine and explain why I selected it. Edward's fingers brush mine as he reaches for his glass and grasps it by its stem. His wrist flicks back and forth with a greater range of motion than what is necessary to allow the wine to breathe, and despite the fact I'm focused on the table, I feel him staring at me. My eyes meet his, and one corner of his mouth turns up in a silent dare. His gaze travels downward, lingering on his lap. He looks briefly at his still-moving hand then lowers his eyes before bringing them back to mine.

"How long do you expect me to do this?" he asks.

The implication of his statement both amuses and enrages me, but I can't call him on it, because we're not alone. I don't doubt for a second that he planned this, nor I do actually believe he's asking the amount of time he should give the wine to oxidize before drinking it.

"Until it softens," I say; it's just as applicable for what he has in his glass as it is for what he has in his lap.

He laughs, and the moment I'm back in my seat, I find myself doing something I haven't done in years—I gulp my wine. Needless to say, the bottle doesn't last long.

I don't wait for Edward to leave before excusing myself to my room. I kick off my shoes and stretch out in bed. Moments later, I hear a knock at the door.

"It's just me," Alice calls from the hallway.

"Come in." I wait until she's closed the door before speaking. "This is going to sound completely hypocritical–"

"You're mitigating," she says, flopping onto the bed beside me. "This should be good."

"I can't believe you told your brother to make himself scarce this week. I mean, it's a holiday–"

"Exactly. And I've spent every holiday with him since..." She empties her lungs in a gush and shakes her head. "Since I started spending holidays with him," she says, shrugging.

"It's a waste of effort."

"Holidays?" she asks. "Agreed. That's why I'm making you cook."

"Good food is never a waste. I'm talking about the way you're constantly censoring yourself with me."

"Fine, then." She sighs. "Edward and I have spent every holiday together since you moved to Chicago, though not because he asked for my company. That would have been a verbal acknowledgement that he has emotional needs."

"And Edward doesn't do that. He expects you to just know; then he holds it against you when you don't."

"In your case, that's a valid criticism. It's different for me—I _do _just know—and some of those years despite his insistence otherwise, I _knew_ I couldn't leave him alone. Thanksgiving is always rough for Edward, and Christmas is usually worse. We spend holidays together, but we don't actually celebrate them—he's easier to deal with if we don't. Most years we get Chinese food and go to the movies." She yawns. "I don't know why I'm so tired; it must be the wine. This is the time I usually have dinner, but I think if I were to close my eyes right now, I'd sleep until morning."

"Then maybe that's what you should do."

"Probably," she says, yawning. "I just miss you so much. I don't want to waste a moment of your visit–"

"I know I'm going home to Chicago in a week, but as far as we're concerned, I'm not _going _anywhere. You understand, that?"

"I do now." She smiles, and a few seconds later she's curled up on my bed, fully clothed and fast asleep.

I can't shake the feeling there's something she isn't telling me.


	8. Coates Law of Maturity

I don't own _Twilight_.

For Elizabeth440.

* * *

_**Chapter Seven**_

_**Coates Law of Maturity  
**_

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 1995**

His thing is too distracting for me to even try to sleep. The easy solution would be to move away from him, but I don't; I like being in his arms too much.

"Is this all right?" he asks.

It's wonderful, amazing even, but I don't tell him. Instead, I just nod.

"You wanted to kiss me, so I assumed you wouldn't mind. The more that I think about it though, it probably wasn't such a good idea."

I turn onto my back to look at him. My hip rubs across the front of his body and presses against his joystick. I know how sensitive that area is—my dad always tells me a good kick in the nuts will stop any male attacker long enough for me to yell for help—so when Edward produces a sound that's somewhere between a grunt and a gasp, I assume the worst.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I wasn't even trying to _touch_ you, let alone hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me." His smile is small but it's there.

It confuses the hell out of me. "You sounded as if you were in pain."

"I was—in fact, I still am. Just not in the way you're thinking."

I start to say that don't understand, stopping mid-sentence when all of a sudden, I _do_ understand.

"Oh." My eyes are downcast and my face is on fire.

Laughing, he puts his arms around my neck and pulls my upper body against his, maintaing a safe distance between me and his junk. I think maybe he's lying—that I really did hurt him—but then his fingertips start to play with my hair, and I'm too focused on how good that feels to care much about anything else. For several moments, we lie in silence.

When he finally speaks, all traces of laughter are gone from his voice. "The first holiday on your own is always rough. Each year gets a little easier; you'll see."

"Alice said you prefer spending the holidays alone, but you could go home to Chicago if you wanted."

"I'd be just as alone there as I am here. The fact there'd be people around me would only intensify the feeling."

"You mean your step-mother?"

"My issues are with my father," he explains. "His wife doesn't matter to me one way or the other, but she's always been kind to Alice. I suppose I should be grateful for that."

"Do you think your dad cheated on your mom?" I know it's none of my business, but I need to talk to someone who understands.

"I know for a fact he did."

"Ugh," I say, rolling my eyes. "That's what bothers me more than anything. I'm really close to my dad—way more than I am to my mom. My dad's the chief of police, but when it comes to me, my mother is always the one who plays bad cop. She justifies it by saying she has a lot of regrets and doesn't want me to make the same mistakes she did—that she's strict because she loves me. I once overheard my dad tell one of his buddies that my mom lost her personality when she found Jesus; his friend claimed she never had one to begin with. It might even be true—I don't know and I don't care. It doesn't matter that I don't _like_ my mother very much. I love her, and he was wrong to cheat on her."

Edward opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but the only resulting sound is a sigh.

"What?" I ask.

"Was she really that strict?"

"You have no idea."

"So being here with me..."

"Would be completely unacceptable."

"Got it." He drags his hand down my back and rests his open palm against my hip.

"May I ask you a question?"

"I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Why are you touching me?"

"Would you like me to stop?" But he doesn't stop. He slides his hand down my leg to where my skin is bare and traces circles with his fingertips on my thigh.

"No," I admit. "I just don't understand."

"Are you enjoying it?"

"Yes."

"Me, too."

"Why? I mean, earlier you said you wouldn't kiss me again because you didn't think you'd be able to stop. Well, I don't think I'm ready to do much more than kiss you, and I don't want to lead you on."

"You aren't. I mean, I've barely touched you." He lifts his hand from my leg and touches my face. "You're blushing. Are you really that naïve?"

"I told you today was my first kiss."

"I know, but you've also said you wanted to lick me."

"I did not!"

"So you _don't_ want to lick me?"

"No! I mean yes." I clap my hand over my mouth. "Shit. I didn't mean to say that out loud." I shut my eyes and turn my face into the pillow. "I think I want to die. When did this happen?"

"On the phone after you'd been drinking. Don't be embarrassed; I enjoyed it."

"Sure, in an it's-nice-to-know-someone-thinks-you're-hot-even-if-you-have-zero-interest-in-her kind of way." I shrug. "Everyone likes ego boosts."

"Since you seem to have been born without the mechanism in your brain that filters your thoughts before they exit your body through your mouth as words, I'm going to pretend for a few minutes that I don't have one either, and hope I don't say anything that makes you want to hit me."

"I think I want to hit you already."

"You're cute," he says, laughing.

"Is it necessary to patronize me?"

"What makes you think I'm not interested in you?" he asks, ignoring my question.

"Do you always answer questions with another question?"

"What's wrong with answering questions with questions?"

"In this setting, it's an obvious avoidance tactic."

"Oh, I agree completely." His smile is one of victory. "For the sake of clarity, let's go back to the beginning. Why do you think I'm not interested in you?"

A lot of reasons come to mind: He's four years older than I am and in a different stage of his life. He's goal-oriented and driven, and wants to be a part of a world that holds no appeal to me. I don't mention any of these. Instead, I bury my face in the pillow and give him the one reason that's real.

"You regret kissing me."

"No. I wish the circumstances surrounding kissing you were different, but I don't regret doing it. I feel the same way about that night on the phone. Though I would have preferred to have had that conversation with you while you were sober, I liked hearing that you wanted me in your mouth. In fact, I liked it almost as much as I liked seeing you come to bed wearing my undershirt. I'd tell you exactly what that did to me, except you felt it for yourself."

I whip my head around and look at him. I expect a smile or a laugh, but there's neither; he doesn't appear to be kidding. His hand moves from my shoulder to my face, and he lowers his lips to mine. More from shock than anything else, my mouth opens on its own. I feel his tongue against mine, and when he makes the same breathy groan he did earlier, I think I understand what he meant when he said he was in pain. I don't know what I want from him or from this, but whatever it is, I want it so much it hurts. So I pull him closer—I throw my leg over his hips and press myself against him. His noises are getting louder, his kiss is getting deeper, and though I'm only wearing his undershirt and my panties, I've never been so hot.

His kiss has a rhythm that my hips take it upon themselves to replicate. My shirt rides up and exposes my underwear, and the next thing I know, I'm on on my back. He's on top of me with his tongue in my mouth, his hands in my hair, and his hips between my legs. It doesn't matter that he's wearing pajama pants and I'm wearing underwear, I can feel that part of him against that part of me. Though he's physically closer to me than anyone has ever been, it's not close enough. I wonder if any such thing exists. I think about this long after he's fallen asleep with his arms wrapped tightly around my waist. Something tells me I could have him inside me, and I'd want him to be even closer.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

Alice sleeps the same way now as she did in college—on her side with her knees bent and her hands folded demurely beneath her chin. It isn't like her to take naps, so I know she must be exhausted. I also know it's all my fault—that I've been so focused on what seeing Edward again was doing to me that I never stopped to think about what having Edward and me in close proximity to one another after all these years would do to her. Though I doubt I can ease her emotional stress, I can help in other ways. As quietly as I can manage, I head to the kitchen, leaving her to her dreams. Though I'm able to care of the day's dishes in blissful solitude, when it's time for me to knead dough for tomorrow's breakfast, I'm not so lucky.

"If not for the flight here, I wouldn't know you were capable of sitting." Edward moves across the kitchen and stands beside me at the counter. "Seriously, Isabella. Even _I _take breaks once in a while, and if I–"

"Don't patronize me."

"I wasn't."

"Really?" I slam the dough down and turn to face him. "Were you not about to tell me that if _you're _able to find time to relax despite how important your responsibilities are, then surely I can spare a few moments from mine? Just so you know, this kind of condescension is even less appealing from you now than it was ten years ago."

"I didn't mean it that way."

If I didn't know him, I'd believe him. But I do know him—all too well.

"Just like your unorthodox method of aerating the Riesling wasn't _meant_ to be a sexual innuendo."

"Excuse me?"

I tear off a piece of dough and roll it between my palms. When it's roughly the same size and shape as the stem of a wineglass, I repeat his gesture from lunch.

"That's just wrong," he says, shaking his head. "If that's supposed to be me, well...you know the model you're using isn't even remotely close to scale."

Unable to resist the urge to be immature, I drop the dough onto the counter top and flatten it with my fist.

"Is this better?" I ask, but I know it isn't. In fact, I only feel worse.

I push the dough to the side and hide my face in my hands. I don't want to cry, but I can't help it—the tears come on their own. Soon his hands are in my hair and my face is against his chest. He feels the same and smells the same, and I realize nothing has changed—he's still him and I'm still me.

My tears turn into sobs. He asks me what's wrong, but hysteria has rendered me incapable of speech. It's just as well. I don't want to tell him I'm crying because I still love him, want him, crave him beyond all reason. I know it doesn't make a difference. None of it matters because nothing has changed.


	9. Cru

I don't own _Twilight. _

For Elizabeth440._  
_

Thanks to candycanesfly_.  
_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter Eight**

**Cru**

**

* * *

**

**November 22, 1995**

Telling Edward that I'd forgotten to pack pajamas may be the best lie I've ever told, and not just because he liked seeing me in his undershirt. If I were wearing the flannel monstrosity I'd brought with me, I'd be drenched in sweat right now. Edward is that hot and not just because of his hard chest, gorgeous eyes, perfect bubble butt, and insane confidence—he also produces lots and lots of heat. During the course of the night I wake up a few times, and though I feel suffocated, I don't wiggle out of his arms. I like being there too much. Instead, I kick the covers away and pull him closer, fascinated by his warmth.

When I open my eyes in the morning I'm shivering, and I don't need the sound of the shower running in the bathroom to tell me Edward had already gotten out of bed. Taking advantage of his absence, I pull the covers around me tightly and sit up in bed, studying the space around me for any information it could provide me about the person who occupies it.

It doesn't give me much. His walls are empty with the exception of a framed copy of the Declaration of Independence hanging opposite the bed. To say his space is uncluttered is an understatement—with the exception of a photograph of a woman I assume is his mother, there are no personal touches whatsoever. Either he's a total neat-freak, or he's completely unsentimental.

When I hear the bathroom door open, my face heats up. I know I wasn't actually snooping—I wasn't looking at anything that wasn't in plain sight—but I feel bad about it anyway. Then Edward strolls into the room naked except for a towel wrapped around his hips, and guilt is the last thing on my mind. He smiles at me as he walks over to the bed.

"Good morning," he says, sitting beside me. "Did you sleep okay?"

I nod like a tool, but I don't say anything. I can't; I'm too focused on how at ease he is with his body, how comfortable he must feel in his own skin, and how different it must be from how I felt when I was naked except for a towel in front of him. I wonder if it's a guy thing, or an older-guy thing, or even something that has nothing to do with age or gender and everything to do with sexual experience—something of which I have none and he probably has lots. It could also be about confidence, and though I have more of that than I've had sex, that's not saying much.

"Good." He brushes his thumb across my cheek before standing and walking over to his dresser. "I was trying to be finished in the bathroom before you woke up. I hope you didn't need to get in there."

His back is to me as he pulls a pair of boxers out of the top drawer. I don't know what he does with his towel; I just know one minute it's covering his ass, and the next it isn't. I think his butt cheeks might be like the sun—that I'll go blind if I look at them directly—but I can't help myself; they're too perfect. Then he steps into his boxers and I get a glimpse of something even more fascinating than his ass crack. There, dangling between his thighs, I see the back of his ball sack.

"Doesn't that get in the way?"

He pulls on his boxers creating what I can only describe as a total eclipse of the ass. When he turns to face me, he's laughing.

I squeeze my eyes closed and scrunch up my face. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," he says. "And no, it doesn't."

"I can't believe it," I mutter under my breath.

"Why? I've been working with it my whole life; I'm used to it."

"I meant I can't believe I said that."

There's laughter in his voice. "I can."

I feel the mattress dip as sits beside me, and when I open my eyes, he's wearing jeans and a button-down shirt. I'm relieved and disappointed in equal parts.

"I figured after you got out of the shower, we could maybe get some breakfast and then do some grocery shopping. I don't have much of anything to feed you here."

"If I'm going to do the cooking, then aren't I technically feeding you?"

He's laughing, as I get out of bed. I start to head toward the bathroom, then turn around and grab my bag to take with me. As much as I enjoyed this morning's show, I'm not about to reciprocate.

**-o-O-o-**

An hour later, we step into the hallway. Edward locks the door to his apartment, and as we make our way to the stairwell, he reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine.

"Wouldn't want you to fall or anything," he says.

"I'm not clumsy."

"Right."

"No, really, I'm not. I was just distracted yesterday."

"By what?"

"Your..." I stop myself just in time. "Never mind."

It doesn't matter; he's figured it out for himself and is already laughing at my expense.

At the coffee shop on the corner, he pays for breakfast. We proceed to the supermarket, where he pays for groceries and arranges to have them delivered. As soon as we return to his apartment building, I ask him how much I owe him.

"Nothing," he says.

"Don't be silly. You'd never buy this much for yourself."

"True, but it's not any different from if I'd asked you out to dinner. I'd fully expect to pay for your meal."

"That would be a date though."

"Isn't that what this was?" he asks. "It follows the date formula. I extended an invitation, which you accepted. We spent the day getting to know each other a bit better, and I escorted you home. Granted, it's a little strange that your home at the moment happens to be my apartment."

"Why didn't you just ask me out?"

"As cute as you are when you're nervous, I wanted you to actually enjoy yourself."

"So you took me on a date to Safeway?"

"It's a bit different, I admit. But it's not as if I didn't feed you." He opens the door to his apartment then steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. "I hope you won't find it presumptuous if I invite myself in?"

"No," I say, giggling.

He follows me inside his apartment and closes the door behind us. I move to sit down, but his hands clasp mine, holding me in place.

"And if I kissed you?"

He doesn't wait for me to answer; he just brushes his lips against mine.

"Not presumptuous either," I say.

"What if I asked you to come to bed with me? Would that be inappropriate?"

"Not under the circumstances...I mean, it's not as if there's anywhere else to sit."

I kick off my shoes and flop onto the bed; Edward stretches out beside me, lying on his side with his head propped up with his hand.

"Did you really consider this a date?" I ask, turning to face him.

"Yes. Is that okay with you?"

"Yes!" Amazing is a more applicable word.

"What about this?" He rests his hand on my hip. "Is this okay?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me if something isn't?" he asks, lowering his face to mine.

"Okay."

The next thing I know, my hands are in his hair and my tongue is in his mouth. He's making noises that make me think he likes that I've taken some initiative, so I take off his shirt. My eyes are closed, and I'm so caught up in how he tastes and feels that I'm oblivious to everything else.

"Can you even feel this?" he asks.

"Huh?" I look down to find him touching my breast over my shirt.

When I bought my Miracle Bra, my mother told me only sluts wore stuff like that. This statement alone was enough to convince me Second Skin Satin was sex itself wrapped in shiny polyester. Now that I realize the cups are so padded that I may as well be wearing a chastity belt for boobs, I wonder if maybe she wasn't trying some reverse psychology on me—that she knew very well that if a guy tried to cop a feel while I was wearing this bra, there'd be no way I'd actually _feel _it. Once again, my life is ruined by my over-protective mother and my non-existent breasts. Mother un-fucking A (cups).

"No, I couldn't." I sit up and cross my arms over my chest. "I'm wearing a lot of layers...at least, that part of me is."

"Oh." He pushes himself onto his knees in front of me. "May I take them off?"

"The bra or my shirt?"

"Ideally both. There's no reason to be self-conscious." He slides his hands underneath my shirt and moves them up my back, stopping when he reaches the clasp of my bra. "I think you're beautiful."

It's the first time anyone has ever used that word to describe me, and I like hearing it. Even more, I like hearing it from him.

"Do you want me to touch you?" he asks.

I'm trembling as I whisper, "Yes."

"You're nervous."

"Yes."

"Is it because this is new to you, or because you don't trust me?"

"Maybe a little of both."

"May I ask why?"

"Why haven't I done this before? I spent most of high school grounded for cursing. And I'd never met anyone I'd wanted like this until now."

"No, I meant why don't you trust me?"

"You're too good at all this. I mean, I'm not even sure I know how to get myself off, let alone get a guy off. You're obviously experienced, and you probably have expectations..."

"What would you like to know?" He slides his hands out from under my shirt and rests them on my knees.

I think I know what he's going to say, but I ask him anyway. "Are you a virgin?"

"No."

I close my eyes and sigh. "I guess that was a stupid question. I mean, you're older and I could sort of tell, but I didn't want to assume..."

"It's okay."

"Have you done it a lot?"

"Sex? Yes."

"How old were you when you..."

"Lost my virginity? Sixteen."

"Have you been with a lot of girls?"

"No," he says, laughing.

"Why is that funny?"

"Because that's so far from who I am, that you would think that is amusing."

"But you're like...sex personified."

"I wouldn't go that far, but I _do_ consider myself an extremely sexual person."

"So it makes sense for me to assume–"

"No, it doesn't." He spreads his fingers and moves his hands up my legs a few inches, stroking the inside of my thighs with his thumbs.

My breathing starts to deepen—even through my jeans, his touch feels amazing.

"See? You're the same way I am. How many men have touched you like this?" he asks.

"Only you."

"There you go. Sexuality and promiscuity need not have anything to do with the other. When you find someone to whom you feel connected, it's normal to want share your body." He places his hands back on my knees. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

"Are you with anyone right now?"

"I'm with you."

"I mean besides me."

"I wouldn't be with you right now if I were with anyone else."

"Why _are_ you with me?" I ask. "You're so beyond where I am, and you're gorgeous and charismatic. You could probably have anyone you wanted."

"At the moment, I only want you."

"Why?"

"I've liked you from the first time I met you. If you weren't right out of your parents' house and rooming with my sister, I probably would have asked you out then. The more I saw you, the more you appealed to me. You're so—for lack of a better way of putting it—real. I've spent my whole life surrounded by people pretending to be something they weren't, and you're not like that. I doubt you could fake an emotion if your life depended on it. You don't even think before you speak—how could you possibly lie?"

"Please. Not only do I lie, I've lied to you."

"When?"

"Last night when I said I forgot to pack my pajamas."

"Oh," he says, laughing. "So you were trying to seduce me?"

"No! I mean, yes. Well...kind of." I bury my face in my hands. "Shit."

"It's okay; I don't mind. I'd just like to know what you were thinking."

I push my hair behind my ears and meet his eyes. "What I packed was frumpy and juvenile, and I really wanted you to kiss me with tongue."

So he does. He leans toward me and presses his mouth against mine, teasingly tracing my lips with his tongue. With his mouth still open, he drags his bottom lip across my face to my earlobe, which he scrapes lightly with his teeth.

"Like this?" he whispers.

"Yes."

"Will you let me see you?" he asks, then sucks my earlobe into his mouth. After he releases it, his hands settle on my hips.

"Yes."

"Will you let me touch you?"

I feel his fingers work their way under my shirt to the clasp of my bra. Once again, I'm panicked.

"I'm not ready to have sex with you," I say. "I mean, I want to...it's just..."

"I'm not trying to have sex with you, Isabella. I just want to touch you...to be close to you."

I don't have to think about it; I want to be close to him more than anything.

"Okay."

"I promise to stop if it gets to be too much." He unhooks my bra, then traces his fingers around my ribcage under the now-loose band. When he reaches the underside of my breasts, he brushes my nipples with his thumbs.

This time, I_ do_ feel it—not only there, but also in my belly, between my legs, even on the soles of my feet. I don't stop him when he pulls my shirt and bra off my body. Then he pulls me into his arms and holds me. The heat of his skin is overwhelming, and I feel myself melting into him. I'd do more, but he stays true to his word. We lie in bed together, barefoot and bare-chested, holding each other and talking. He tells me about prep-school, his four years at Harvard, and how determined he was to attend a law school that would have him in the same city as Alice. He tells me about the half-brother he's never met, whom Alice doesn't know exists. He thinks that if she did, she wouldn't be able to stomach being in the same room as their father, either.

After a few hours of talking, I know. I may be lying still in his arms, but I'm not without movement. I'm falling. I'm falling fast and hard.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

Without loosening his hold on me, he moves toward the door. Leading comes as naturally to him as stumbling along gracelessly at his side comes to me. The mechanics are the same as they always were, but this time I'm not following him out of absolute trust or adolescent hero worship. He's leading me over the edge; I'm sure of it, but I don't care.

Trembling from hiccups and hysteria, I turn my face to his; my eyes ask the question my lips are still quivering too much to form.

"I'm taking you home," he says.

One way or another, this is the end. Running is useless; I know that now. I move and move and move when I finally stop I'm exactly where I started.

"Okay," I whisper.

**-o-O-o-**

Edward fumbles a bit with his keys as he unlocks the door to his apartment—a simple act that's complicated by the fact his arms are around me. From the moment I broke down in the kitchen, he's yet to let me out of his embrace. "Can't have you falling in the stairwell," he'd said as he helped me out of the cab. There's security and a doorman and a semi-private elevator, and though there must be stairs somewhere, we don't use them.

Once the door is open, he tries to pull me over the threshold, but my feet stay rooted in place. Though so much of him is the same, I know this will be different and I'm not sure I'm ready for that. It's hypocritical of me—I've gone on with my life, it's only fair that he do the same. Except I really haven't. I fled to the city in which he grew up, where I rented an apartment that reminded me of the one we shared here. I've dated men since him, but I haven't loved any of them. I moved, but I never moved on.

"I know how you feel," he says.

"I don't even know I feel."

"I know how _I_ feel. I've thought of this so many times—what you were doing, who you've become, if I'd ever see you again, if I'd feel the same." His hand brushes my cheek then angles my face toward his. "Ask me, Isabella," he whispers. "Just ask. I promise, this time I won't say no."

"Don't you see? That's the problem. Children ask; subordinates ask. _I _shouldn't have to ask. I should be able to just tell you–"

"Then _tell_ me. What you do you want?"

I used to want him more than anything—more than I wanted my own career or self-fulfillment, more than I respected myself. At eighteen, it was idealistic; people thought I was being romantic. At thirty-two, it would be downright stupid. Everyone but Alice would say I was being a fool. Truth be told, I was a fool then, too— I didn't notice because we were so on fire. I want it back, even if it only lasts half a moment. I want his heat; I want to burn. I want him inside me, but more than that, I want to be inside him. I want him to consume me. It's all I've ever wanted, and all I have to do is say it.

So I do. "I want you to kiss me."

He's tentative in a way he never used to be, and I wonder if he's as nervous as I am. His hands cup my face, and his lips brush against mine once, twice. It's the slightest of contact—it's already too much, but I know it will never be enough.

With his cheek pressed against mine, he whispers in my ear, "Come home." His chest trembles as he inhales. "I won't rehash the past or try to make you stay. I just need you."

This time when he pulls me through the doorway, I go with him. I think I always will.

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

_Fall to Ruin One Day_ and _Darkrooms and Safe Light_ were nominated for Rare Gem Awards. Thank you so much for thinking of me. If you'd like to vote for your favorite stories, you can do so at thesparkleteerawards DOT blogspot DOT com SLASH p SLASH voting DOT html

I put teasers for this on my website as well as on twitter; links for both are on my profile.

As always, thank you for reading.


	10. Beaujolais

**Chapter Nine**

**Beaujolais**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 1995**

It's a lot less awkward going to sleep tonight than it was last night, though admittedly that's not saying much. I know I'll be sharing Edward's bed clad only in a borrowed undershirt and my panties. I know he's going to hold me, kiss me, and get a gigantic boner. Most importantly, I know I'm okay with this. I finish brushing my teeth as quickly as possible, anxious to rejoin him.

"Ever thought you'd be the kind of girl who'd sleep with a guy on the first date?" he asks when I come out of the bathroom.

I giggle. "No."

He doesn't bother with pajama pants tonight, and when he joins me in bed, he's wearing nothing but dark gray boxer briefs. There's a decided bulge next to the opening in the front, and I can't seem to tear my eyes away from it. Edward sees me looking, and looks at me inquisitively.

I say the first thing that comes into my head.

"Is it weird to pee with your underwear on? Like, aren't you ever worried you'll dribble?"

He shakes his head, laughing. "I can't believe you just asked me that."

"I'm sorry–"

"Don't be sorry; you're adorable. And no, I've never been worried I'll dribble. Even when I'm not hard, there's enough of me down there that I can aim things where they need to go." He reaches between his legs and takes out his penis. "This isn't entirely accurate because at the moment I'm semi-erect, but you get the idea."

Except I don't get the idea. His hand is wrapped around it in a way that makes it difficult for me to see anything besides the head. Other than the fact it appears to be a much darker color than the rest of him, it's still largely a mystery. It fascinates me—both his penis and the sight of him touching it.

He gives it a quick tug before tucking it back inside his underwear. Part of me is relieved he didn't ask for a hand job or a blow job, and at the same time, I'm disappointed he didn't. I know where we're headed. It makes me nervous because I've never been there, not because I'm not sure I want it or don't think it's right.

"You seem like you're in shock. I didn't traumatize you or anything, did I?" His words are a tad egotistical, but his eyes are sincere.

"Uh uh," I say, shaking my head. "I kind of liked it. I mean, penises are kind of funny looking, but that one is attached to you."

"Is mine funny looking?" he asks, laughing.

"I didn't see enough of it to judge aesthetics, but if it's anything like the rest of you, I don't doubt it's a perfect male specimen."

"Do you realize what you're saying? If penises are funny looking, and mine is the perfect specimen, doesn't that mean my penis is the funniest looking of all?"

"Possibly, but in a good way."

"You know, as amusing as this conversation is, part of me is offended."

"I bet I can guess which part..."

I'm giggling as he pulls me into his arms and kisses me. It's gentle at first—teasing—and though it's nice, I want more. So I kiss him. I nibble, lick, suck, and when it's still not enough, I climb on top of him. Straddling his hips between my thighs, I can feel him pressed against me. If he wasn't fully erect before, there's no doubt he is now. When I grind against him, he moans into my mouth. I think he's beautiful, and I've never wanted anything as much as I want to see it. As long as we're in this position, I won't.

I take my mouth off his, and move so that I'm kneeling beside him.

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

"Yeah." I run my fingers down his chest to the springy hairs around his belly-button. They're surprisingly soft, and for a few seconds, I trace circles around his navel. Then my hand goes lower, to the waistband of his boxer briefs.

His chest rises and falls with each of his audible breaths, and though I don't have a clue what I'm doing, I feel like I'm the one in control, that he'll give me whatever I ask for.

"Will you take these off?"

Less than a second passes before he lifts his hips off the bed and pushes his underwear down his legs. His penis springs free, standing at attention. For a while, I just stare at it, taking in all the details—the veins on the shaft, the slit on the tip, the hair on his nutsack.

"Still think it's funny looking?" he asks.

"Now that it's hard, your penis is pretty. I'm sorry if I offended it. Your testicles on the other hand...well...they're kind of hilarious."

His laughter makes his penis move, and though I want to touch it, I don't know how.

"You're not going to hurt it," he says, as if reading my thoughts.

"Well, not if you show me."

He tries to put my hand on his penis, but I pull it away.

"That's not what I meant."

"What, are you asking for a demonstration?"

"If you don't mind."

He wraps his hand around his shaft and starts to pump it up and down, twisting his wrist on each downward stroke. It's fascinating until I look up at his face, and as curious as I am about what's going on in his hand, but I can't tear my eyes away. His movements are making the muscles in his arms flex, and he moans each time he exhales. He smiles when he sees me looking, and I'm not sure if he's more into getting himself off or the fact that I'm watching him do so. It doesn't matter; his face is beautiful regardless.

"I'm close," he says, reaching for a tissue with his spare hand.

"Do it on me," I say, taking the tissue away from him.

"Huh?"

"I want it," I insist. "On me. Please."

Almost instantly, he closes his eyes and lets out a long moan. The white liquid on my thighs is warm and thick. For a while, I just stare at it—not because it's cum, but because of who it came from.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 23, 1995**

After getting out of the shower, I head right to the kitchen and start to work on dinner. Though I wasn't surprised to discover Edward was serious when he asked if I knew how to cook a turkey, I never expected he'd be so excited by the prospect of a traditional Thanksgiving meal. He's more like a little boy on Christmas than a grown man on Thanksgiving. It's a side to him I didn't know he had, and I like it. This morning, he's not godlike, nor is he working toward spending immortality on a pedestal surrounded by white columns down by the river. I'm grateful for it—that part of him intimidates me. But this part—the part of him that wears jeans and flannel and gets excited over food—I love. What's more, I think I love him.

I don't have any experience with love, but my mom always says if you have to wonder if you're feeling it, you probably aren't. And I do wonder, but not because I doubt what I'm feeling. I just never thought I could fall in love so fast. I think maybe I'm wrong based on that alone, but then I look at him watching me. I want to make him happy more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, and I know that has to be love—I just don't know what to do about it.

"Are you going to stare at me like that all day?" I ask.

"Probably," he says, laughing. "You have to understand, I haven't had a real Thanksgiving in years."

"You consider this a real Thanksgiving? I mean, it's just the two of us and we'll be eating on the floor–"

"Everything about this is real."

His eyes are serious, and I wonder if maybe he feels it, too.

"How did you learn to cook?" he asks.

"My mother. It's the only thing we both enjoy doing, though honestly I have more fun with it when she's not around. She's very by-the-book; I like to do things my own way."

"I can tell. I mean, I can't even boil a pot of water, but I've eaten enough stuffing to know that dried cranberries and stale pumpkin muffins aren't typical ingredients."

"It's my own recipe, and it works with chicken as well. It's yummy; you'll just have to trust me."

**-o-O-o-**

"I hope you like red," he says, opening a bottle of wine. "I didn't think to ask—at my parents' house, we always had Beaujolais on Thanksgiving."

"I've never had it."

"Beaujolais?"

"Wine." I feel weird admitting this, but not for the usual reason. In this case, it's not an age-difference thing as much as it's a class-difference thing—and that's something that will never change. "My dad only drinks beer; my mom doesn't drink at all. Though I've drank a few times on campus, wine doesn't exactly rank well on the buzz-per-buck scale."

"That's drinking to get drunk, which is different. Think of this as part of the meal." He pours two glasses, one of which he hands to me. "Don't drink it yet; it needs to breathe. If you swirl the glass around a little, it will help it along."

I stare at the red liquid in my glass, feeling a sort of kinship. I need help breathing around Edward, too.

"Why don't you sit down?" He gestures to a stadium blanket spread out on the floor. "You've done so much work. The least I can do is serve you."

I sit on the floor and wait for him to join me. When he does, he's holding a single plate of food. He doesn't exactly serve me—he feeds me, one bite at a time. Though no one has fed me since I was a baby, I don't feel like a child. Quite the opposite—I almost feel like a woman. And I want more than anything to _be_ one.

**-o-O-o-**

After we clean up dinner, we get ready for bed. It's the same as the night before—I change into one of his white undershirts, and he forgoes pajama pants. I'm sitting at his computer when he comes out of the bathroom, naked except for a pair of boxers.

"Come to bed," he says.

"I'm not sleepy."

"Who said anything about going to sleep?" He stretches out on the bed then pushes himself up onto his knees, beckoning to me with his index finger.

I get up from his desk and stand beside the bed. When he's close enough to reach, he tugs on the hem of my shirt.

"I want to take this off," he says.

He's seen me topless once before, but this time, I'll be wearing nothing but panties. Though it feels too soon, it also feels inevitable.

"Okay."

He lifts my shirt over my head and discards it. Right away, I feel exposed. I look at the floor as I cross my arms over my chest.

"Sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I'm so inexperienced." I close my eyes, sighing. "You've probably never had to work so hard only to have to take matters into your own hands."

"This isn't about that."

"By your own admission, you're extremely sexual."

"I am, but that doesn't mean I have any expectations. The problem is that I don't know what you're thinking. You could be hiding yourself because you're not ready for me to see you naked, or it could be because you're afraid I won't like what I see. If it's the first reason, that's fine—I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. If it's the second...which is it?"

I can't bring myself to look at him, so I just hold up two fingers.

"Oh, Bella."

"Bella?" I look up at him in surprise.

"Hasn't anyone ever called you that?"

"No. I've always been Izzy—well, until I met you, and you insisted on calling me Isabella."

"Bella means beautiful–"

"That's probably why no one calls me it," I mutter under my breath.

"–and I think it suits you."

"Okay." I don't agree with him, but I'll let him call me whatever he wants.

"Now, Bella." He takes my hands and pulls me toward him. "I think it's time for bed."

When we get under the covers, we're skin to skin except for my panties and his boxers. When I fall asleep, it's in his arms. My last cognizant thought is that I belong here.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

After the door closes behind us, Edward and I linger in the foyer. It's tense being alone with him again, but not in the way I thought it would be. I no longer feel as if I need to prove my maturity, my intelligence, or my value to society, nor am I compelled to hide the extent to which his presence affects me. It doesn't matter—now that he's seen me cry, I'm past pretending. Relief comes with humiliation but it's a relief nonetheless, and for the first time since I spotted him at the airport, I feel like myself. It's a nice feeling, even if I know it's not necessarily an improvement.

We're standing a foot away from each other, and despite the fact we had no problem at all touching while we were out in the hallway, then there was a level of safety in knowing we could be interrupted at any moment. Now that's no longer the case, there's nothing stopping us from taking things too far. Part of me wants nothing more than to get carried away, to lose myself in him. I don't trust myself to look at him without losing my resolve, so I look around his apartment instead. The layout is spacious, the views are spectacular, and the decor is both modern and decidedly impersonal. It's more who he wants people to think he is than who I know him to be. Then again, my information is painfully outdated.

"I want you to relax, to feel at home here," he says. "Would you like something to drink? I doubt I have any wine that would be up to your standards, but I try to keep a decently stocked bar."

"Armagnac is fine."

"Apparently, not decently enough," he mutters, shaking his head. "Armagnac?" He looks at me as if I'm a stranger. "Really?"

"It's okay; most people don't keep it around."

"Most people don't know what it _is_. Yet somehow, I get the sense you always have it on hand?'

"Because I do," I say, shrugging. "But never mind that. I'll have whatever you're having."

I follow him to the dry bar in the corner. He pauses for moment, then pours a finger of Macallan for each of us.

"I hope this is okay," he says, handing me a glass.

"It's perfect. Thank you."

As I raise the double old-fashioned to my lips, he watches me, shaking his head.

"Every time I look at you..."

"What?" I ask.

"The last time I saw you, you were twenty-two years old. Until yesterday, that was how I pictured you—with waist-length hair, a round face, torn jeans and beat-up Docs. I knew in theory your looks must have changed, but it's nothing like having you in front of me. It's going to take some getting used to—seeing you as an adult."

"I've been an adult for as long as you've known me; what you're having difficulty with is seeing me as your equal."

"That's not what this is about. Fourteen years ago, I gave you your first glass of wine. Now you're asking if I have armagnac then forcing yourself to be content with single malt. As much as it feels like I know you, I'm painfully aware that I probably don't. I can't imagine you feel much different about me."

"Oh, I feel completely different about you," I say. "Not only do I see pictures of you all the time, you're on CNN and C-SPAN—there's video and sound to go with them. Needless to say, I knew exactly how you'd aged. I was prepared for all of it—well, almost. The wrinkles around your mouth and on your forehead kind of catch me off-guard sometimes."

"Is this your way of saying I look old?" he asks, sounding offended.

"No. It's my way of saying you have wrinkles."

"You know, there's this thing most of us do before we run our mouths—perhaps you've heard of it—it's called thinking. Are you at all familiar with this concept?"

"I am." I drink the rest of my scotch and place the empty glass on the bar. "However, you told me to make myself at home–"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

I shrug. "At home, I can't even be bothered to put on pants most of the time—let alone think before I speak."

"Ah, so there we have it. If you weren't wearing pants right now, I wouldn't be concerned with what comes out of your mouth, either." He steps toward me and pulls my body tightly against his. "Just what comes inside it," he whispers.

I should be offended, but I'm not. He knew I wouldn't be, because I know how he is. Once upon a time, I may have loved him for it—for making me feel sexy, desirable, and consequently whole. As much as I want to give in to it, I don't. If I do, I'll be lost forever.

"You're being very forward."

"Yes."

"It's somewhat irresponsible of you, given your position."

"Probably."

"Doesn't this concern you?

"It _should_."

"But it doesn't."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I meant what I said on the plane."

"That it's nice touching base with your constituents?"

"Right. Because you know I've done this with_ everyone_ who lives in the state of Illinois." His hands drop to an inappropriate section of my back, and he pulls me even more tightly against him. He briefly sucks my earlobe into his mouth before whispering, "You know very well that's not what I'm talking about."

"I'm sorry," I say. "You told me a lot of things during our flight out here. Unfortunately, right before you left you treated me as if I were just another registered voter. That rendered the bulk of your sentiments invalid."

"Is that how I'm treating you now?"

"No. At the moment, you're treating me like I'm just another registered voter you'd like to fuck." Hearing myself say the words is more than I can take and just like that, I'm sobbing again. My knees are weak and my body's trembling, and if not for his arms around me, I'd be on the floor. I hate that I need him, I need him so much—to feel content, to feel alive...Hell, at the moment I even need him to stand.

"Let me go," I say, trying to wiggle out of his arms.

"No."

"Let me go!"

"No."

"Why?" I wail. "Why do you even care?"

"Because I love you." He holds me even tighter, and when he speaks again, his voice breaks. "I love you, Bella. And I need you too much to ever let you leave me again."

* * *

**Happy Thanksgiving. Have some turkey (or some curries, if that's more your thing), pour some Beaujolais, and enjoy the moment. There's much to be thankful for—flasks full of vodka, capless retractable Sharpies, the new improved menu at Art After 5. More than that, I'm thankful for the friends I've made here, and that people care enough to read and leave me their thoughts. May your holiday be filled with all of the love and contentment life can bring. xoxo, C.**


	11. Macallan, Aged Eighteen Years

I don't own _Twilight. _

For Elizabeth440. Huge thanks to bookishqua.

Huge thanks to Caren of the Fictionators for the shout-out that this story is pwning her. I'd also like to thank Jen and Jess of the Perv Pack's Smut Shack for mentioning _Fall to Ruin One Day_ in the Lemon Report.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**Macallan, Aged Eighteen Years**

**

* * *

**

**November 24, 1995**

Though I wake up in his arms, it's not close enough. I'm still groggy as I press myself against him. He's warm like he always is, and despite the fact he's still asleep, he's hard. Throwing one of my legs over both of his, I pull him toward me. His hips move, and I can feel him rubbing me _there_. He lets out a low groan and rolls me onto my back, then settles himself between my thighs. When I hook my thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, it's not an act of curiosity-induced courage—I'm still nervous and a bit scared, and I don't think those emotions will ever go away entirely. At the moment, they're just eclipsed by my need to be close to him. The moment I tug at his boxers, he raises his hips so I can slide them off him without resistance.

This time when he positions himself between my legs, the only thing between us is my cotton underwear. He's rubbing himself against me, and it's the most amazing thing I've ever felt until he slides down my body and palms my breasts. With my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, he rolls and squeezes and though he's touching my chest, I feel it between my legs.

Keeping one of his hands on me, he moves onto his side, stretching out on the bed next to me. His squeezes become harder, my breathing becomes audible, and though I'm more than a little self-conscious, it feels so good I don't care.

"I'm barely touching you, and you're already so expressive." He replaces his hand with his mouth, alternating between sucking gently and flicking his tongue over my nipple. "Something tells me when we make love, you'll be a screamer."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Oh, yes." He moves his hand between my legs and strokes me through my panties. His fingers are the same temperature as the rest of him, but for some reason, they're making me hot and very, very wet. It takes everything I have to produce the words, but somehow I manage; I'm afraid he'll get skeeved and stop if I don't.

"I swear to god, I didn't pee myself. I mean, I know I'm really wet down there, but that isn't why. Not that I haven't been wet down there before, I have—just not like this. Anyway, please don't be grossed out."

"I'm not," he says. "I like it."

"Are you kidding?"

"No. It makes me want to taste you." He rubs the narrow lace trim of the crotch of my panties with his index finger, then slowly snakes it underneath. After stroking me once, he brings his finger to his mouth and licks it.

"Oh my god." I'm turned on and mortified in equal parts. "Seriously?"

"Wouldn't you?" he asks.

"Want to lick it?"

"Yes."

"No! I mean...I know it's supposed to feel good, but I can't imagine it tastes okay, and I'd never be able to reach.."

"I meant mine," he says.

"Oh. You mean would I want to lick your..."

"My dick, Bella."

In theory, I want to lick him and suck him and do whatever it takes to make him feel good. In practice, I _have_ no practice whatsoever. With my luck, I'd probably puke on him.

"Eventually."

"Would you touch it?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes." He takes my hand and puts it on his penis, squeezing my fingers closed around the shaft. It's hard and hot, but the skin is surprisingly soft. "Rub your thumb over the top...yes...just like that."

It's the strangest thing ever, and though my hand is wrapped around it, I can't quite wrap my mind around it. I don't understand how something so hard can also be flexible or how it can go from being squishy and fleshy and fairly innocuous one minute to a helmet-wearing battering ram the next. Even crazier is the idea that Edward walks around with this in his pants _all _the time—that this is normal for him. I'm so focused on that and how he feels in my hand, I don't notice much else. Specifically, I don't know his hand is between my legs until he starts stroking me through the soaked crotch of my panties. I don't know if he wants me to keep touching him or focus on what he's doing to me; I just know I'm not coordinated enough to handle both at the same time. Thankfully, he doesn't expect me to.

"May I take these off?" he asks, tugging on my underwear.

I don't want him to know how nervous I am, so I just nod. I let go of his penis and lift my hips off the bed. He slides my panties over my butt, but leaves them around my thighs a few inches above my knees.

"In case you change your mind," he explains. "And they'll keep me from getting too carried away."

I expect him to touch me right away, but he doesn't—at least, he doesn't touch me where I think he will. Instead, he kisses me. It's teasing at first, but it gets deeper and deeper. He's nibbling on my lower lip when he rests his open palm against my short and curlies. Just when I'm about to die from anticipation, his body shifts. He's sucking on my earlobe as he's touching me there. He strokes and rubs—and though it's nothing I haven't done to myself, this feels different and million times better.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you," he whispers. "then maybe you'd understand how crazy you make me. Your facial expressions, your sounds, the way you move against me...you don't fake anything, do you? Every moan, every gasp—they're all real, and they're all for me. It makes me want you even more...to be inside you..."

The next thing I know, the tip of his finger _is_ inside me.

"I want to put my cock in here," he says, moving it in circles. "Like this." He pushes his finger all the way in, then slowly pulls it out. "Do you like this?" he asks, sinking it inside me again. "You're getting hotter...wetter." Keeping the same rhythm with his finger, he starts to rub me with his thumb. "Do you know how it feels to come?"

I grunt my response. "Uh-uh."

"I can do that for you; I can make you come so hard."

It feels so good, but at the same time, there's a lot of tension down there and it's so intense it almost hurts. If I were touching myself right now, this would be the point where I would stop.

But Edward doesn't stop. Not only does he keep touching me, he adds a second finger.

"Don't fight it, baby. Just let go."

The knot in my pelvis tightens and tightens, until all of a sudden, it releases into millions of tingles. I feel them everywhere from the bottom of my mouth to the soles of my feet, and though I'm hot and sweaty, I'm shivering at the same time.

He takes his hand from between my legs and pulls me into his arms. I'm trembling as I cling to him; he strokes my hair and peppers the top of my head with tiny kisses. I want to tell him I love him but it seems too soon, so I whisper the next best thing.

"I love being with you like this."

His arms tighten around me. "I love it, too."

**-o-O-o-**

The air is brisk, but not so much that being outside is uncomfortable. Edward holds my hand as we walk down M Street, looking at store windows. He claims he always shops on Black Friday, but I think he's lying, and this is his version of a cold shower. None of the stores we pass are of any interest to me, until we're in front of a lingerie shop. The window displays a red lace slip. It's sexy and festive, and completely unlike anything I own. I can't pinpoint why, but I want to go inside. I stop walking and tug on Edward's arm.

"Do you think I could have a few minutes to browse on my own?"

His eyes dart from my face to the contents of the window and back again. "You want to go in _there_?"

"Well...kind of," I say, staring at the well-worn toes of my Doc Martens. "And I'm mortified enough as it is, so if you don't mind–"

"Okay. I'll meet you back here in half an hour. Is that enough time?"

"Yeah. Thank you."

He squeezes my hand and places a quick kiss on my forehead. "If you buy anything, make sure it's something _you_ like. Okay?"

"Okay."

After he's crossed the street, I take a deep breath and enter the lingerie shop. I look around for a few minutes, trying not to feel intimidated. Just when I'm about to panic, a saleslady approaches me.

"Would you like help with anything?" she asks.

"Yes!" I say a bit too enthusiastically. "I've never shopped for anything like this, and I need something to wear for...well...you know..." I lower my voice to a whisper.. "For when I do _it_. And I've never done that before, either, so something like this..." I gesture toward a pair of split-crotch panties. "...won't work. Also, I have almost no boobs and my budget is roughly the same size they are, so that presents a bit of a challenge, too." Realizing how I sound, I close my eyes and sigh. "This is hopeless, isn't it?"

"Not at all," she says, keeping a professional demeanor. "You're looking for something to wear on a very special evening that's demure but still sexy, and you don't want to spend more than $32. Come with me; we have a few chemises that may work for you."

If she thinks I'm crazy, she doesn't let on.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

"Did you hear me, Bella? I love you. I never stopped, and I don't think I ever will."

"Stop saying it," I wail, pummeling his chest with my fists.

"No—not until you believe me. I love you, Bella. And if I have to say it all night to convince you I mean it, I will. I love you."

"God damn you!" I struggle against his arms, and when we fall to the cold hardwood floor in a heap, he still doesn't let me go. If anything, his embrace seems to tighten.

"Bella–"

"You said you wouldn't try to make me stay," I say, sobbing. "What the hell am I supposed to do now? Get on a plane back to Chicago and pretend this didn't happen?"

"I'm not trying to make you stay. I just needed you to know...because I didn't that Christmas, and I've been carrying it around with me for a decade."

I can't see his face, but his voice is unsteady, and I know he's crying, too.

"And I need to know," he says. "I need to know how you feel. Look at me and tell me you don't feel the same way, and I promise I won't bother you again."

"I don't."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"Then look at me! Look at me and say it—tell me you don't feel the same way. I won't stop you from leaving—I swear to god, Bella, I'll let you go."

I lift my head so I can see his face. His skin is flushed and his eyes are bloodshot, and the contrast makes his eyes the greenest I've ever seen them. It seems as if he can look right through me, and I know. As much as I want to—as better as it would be for my long-term emotional well-being—I can't lie to him.

He'll have all the power again, but I don't care. Though he's no worse off than I've been, I can't stand to see him this broken. I want him to know. I'm thirty-two years old, but the four years I spent with him was the only time in my life I felt truly happy.

"I hate you," I whisper.

"I know."

"You destroyed me."

"I know that, too."

"You make me hate myself."

"You don't have to tell me about self-loathing." His chest quakes beneath my still-clenched fists.

"You make me hate my life, but I can't help it...I love you anyway."

Groaning as if he's in pain, he pulls me more tightly into his embrace.

"I think I always will," I whisper.

We claw at each other out of pure concentrated need to get closer, sobbing because we both know. Everything is different, and nothing has changed.

* * *

_**Thanks so much for reading. **  
_


	12. Veuve Clicquot

I don't own _Twilight._

_For Elizabeth440. Thanks to bookishqua and LJ Summers. _

_

* * *

_

**Chapter Eleven**

**Veuve Clicquot **

**

* * *

**

**November 24, 1995**

After I pay for what the saleslady called a _chemise_, she hands the bag to me over the counter. The store's logo is in bold letters across the front, and I wish it were less obvious what was inside...at the very least, I wish the bag was less pink. As I head toward the door, a middle-aged lady looks at the bag in my hand and raises one of her overly-waxed eyebrows. She reminds me of my mother, so I have a decent idea what she's thinking—that my plans for the contents of my bag will send me straight to hell. Though I avoid her glare, I realize everyone who sees me will look at me the same way.

Edward is standing on the sidewalk, just like he said he'd be.

"Pretend I don't have this, okay?" I say.

"Okay. But doesn't that defeat the purpose of buying it?"

"Not as long as we're in public."

"Fair enough."

He takes my hand, and as we walk along the crowded street, I wonder of this feels as different for him as it does for me—if he realizes I bought lingerie because I think tonight will be_ the night_. Then he pulls me into a liquor store and buys a bottle of champagne, and I think maybe he does.

**-o-O-o-**

"Are you on the pill?"

We're washing the dinner dishes, and his demeanor is so casual it seems as if he has conversations like this all the time.

"Yes." Feeling I need further explanation, I add, "For cramps."

He nods and turns back to the sink. Though I think I know why he asked, it's strange to think that my answer will somehow change the way things happen later. Because if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that things _will _happen later.

"Why?"

"I'm sorry if it seems like I'm being presumptuous; I just know every time we fool around things progress a little further, and now seems like a good time to have this conversation—when we're fully clothed and not getting carried away. That way we know what to expect if we–"

"You mean when."

"When?" he asks.

"Well, yeah. I mean, at this point there are only two things that could probably stop us from having sex. The first would be if you were to suddenly lose interest in doing whatever it is we've been doing–"

"Dating?"

"I know I'm not exactly an expert on these things, but it doesn't feel like we're dating. I mean, we've barely left the apartment."

"Would you like to go out to dinner?" he asks.

"No...I mean, I would if you want to go. Dating is something you do, and I'd love to date you. I want to know how you feel. Like, if we were out together and ran into someone you know, I doubt you'd introduce me as your date."

"Don't be ridiculous; I'd introduce you as my sister's roommate."

"Seriously?"

"No," he says, laughing. "I'd say you were my girlfriend. Unless you have a problem with that–"

He never completes his thought; he has difficulty talking with my tongue in his mouth. We kiss, and though he seems every bit as into it as I am, less than a minute passes before he pulls away.

"Back to the topic at hand," he says.

"Is this your way of saying you'd like me to put my hand on it?" I reach for the button on his jeans. "Because I will if you want..."

"I always want you to touch me; I just want to make sure we're responsible about it. How long have you been on the pill?"

"Three years."

He nods. "Well, that eliminates the need for condoms."

If he wasn't being presumptuous before, he is now. After all, he's not the person whose health would be placed at risk. I don't want to ask about his past—the thought of him with anyone else makes me physically ill. At the same time, I know pregnancy isn't my only concern.

"Does it?" I ask.

"Yes, well...unless you're not comfortable with it."

My hesitance isn't because I don't trust him—I do. I trust him completely. I also know that I _shouldn't _trust him, and it has nothing to do with Edward personally. If Alice told me she was contemplating having unprotected sex with someone she'd been dating three days, I'd tell her she was insane. But this doesn't feel crazy. It only feels right.

"Are you positive you're clean?"

"I donated blood two weeks ago; I wouldn't have done that if I weren't sure."

"Okay."

"I'll wear a condom if you want me, but honestly, I'd prefer not to. I want to be surrounded by you, not latex. It just feels better."

"Okay," I say, wanting nothing more than to make him feel as good as he does me.

I don't think I can, though. It just doesn't seem possible.

**-o-O-o-**

I look at myself in the mirror in the bathroom, studying my reflection. The girl looking back at me seems like a stranger—not because she's wearing lipgloss and mascara and a short, strappy nightgown made of pale blue silk—but because she doesn't look like a girl. She doesn't seem nervous or worried, nor does she question what she's about to do. It's hard to believe she is me—that I'm not a naïve girl about to lose my virginity. I'm a woman—young and inexperienced, but a woman nonetheless—about to make love to a man. It doesn't feel like I'm losing anything. It's more like an inevitable rite of passage that I'm fortunate enough to experience with him—one that I hope will be the first of many.

When I open the bathroom door, there's music playing. I don't recognize the song, but it has a slow, steady rhythm that drives and drags at the same time. It makes me want to take off my nightie, but then I remember I paid twenty-nine dollars for it and I'm wearing nothing underneath.

Edward's standing by the kitchen counter shirtless and barefoot in a well-worn pair of jeans opening a bottle of champagne. Cork popped, he turns around, seeing me for the first time since I emerged from the bathroom.

"Wow," he says.

"Who are you listening to?" I ask. "I've never heard anything like it."

"Portishead," he says, pouring two glasses of champagne. "Do you like it?"

"I think I do. I mean, it's different."

"Different?"

"Okay, so maybe it's a little weird," I concede. "But I like it. I wasn't sure at first, but the more I hear of it, the more I like the way it makes me feel."

"You'll probably feel that way about a lot of things this evening," he says, handing me a glass of champagne.

He touches my glass to his, and the high-pitched clink of the crystal tells me this is really going to happen—that he knew I'd come out of the bathroom in lingerie and that I'd ask him to make love to me. The champagne and music is just his way of easing me into it before easing it into me.

"Don't drink it too quickly, or it will go right to your head."

After taking a sip, I stare at the liquid in the glass, fascinated by the way the bubbles work their way up to the surface. In the bottle, they're under pressure, but when they come into contact with the air, the pressure seems to release on its own.

He places his glass on the counter, and I do the same.

"You look beautiful," he says.

"You _are_ beautiful." I let my gaze leave his face to chest and then lower, to the obvious bulge in his jeans. At least one of us is ready.

He kisses me, gently at first. It's nice, and I start to feel warm inside. His fingers run up my arms, brushing the sides of my breasts through the silk of my nightie. His kiss gets deeper and his thumb rubs my nipple. I'm glad he has his arm around me, because I don't think I'd be able to stand if he didn't.

He's tugging on the hem of my c_hemise_. "May I take this off?"

After I nod, he slides it up then drops it into the floor.

His hands are on my bare skin, dragging up and down my torso; his hips move against mine. He kisses me; it slow and deep and his hips follow the rhythm as his tongue. He carries me onto the bed, placing me in the center of it. After he strips out of his jeans, he's on top of me, with his hips between my thighs. He pushes forward; I can feel how hard—how ready—he is.

If only _I_ was.

"Just move with me," he whispers.

I do what he says. He kisses me as he grinds against me, and though he's close to being inside me, he's not. It's teasing; it's torture, and if the sounds coming from Edward are any indication, he's feeling really good. I think I would too, if I weren't so nervous.

Then he stops teasing. He takes himself in his hand and rubs it against me. It slides along my wet flesh easily, stopping when it's in position. If Edward moves his hips forward, we'll be doing it and I expect him to at any moment.

But he doesn't. Instead he strokes my cheek and looks into my eyes; I think he expects that I'll tell him to stop. He's partially right—there's something I want to tell him more than anything, but it isn't _no_. I can't bring myself to say that I love him. I don't want him to think I'm confusing sex with love—despite the fact I do love him and I'm about to have sex with him.

So I say nothing. I breathe in his scent and focus on the song the CD player seems to have on repeat. It sounds the way I feel, and what's more, this woman with a strange accent is putting my feelings into words in a way I can't.

"For this is the beginning of forever and ever..." she sings.

And I think she's right, and I know what I want. I wrap my legs around his back, but when I tighten them around him to bring him closer, I also bring him inside me. I feel myself stretching, but it's not painful. He slowly presses forward, and all I can think is this is real—that he's really moving inside me. He's the closest he's ever been, but still I want him closer.

"Deeper," I whisper. "I want all of you."

With a grunt, he pushes all the way in. It's not comfortable, but I don't care. I like feeling him on the inside of my body; I like listening to his moans knowing they're for me. His thrusts are getting harder, and his sounds are getting louder. He pulls away slightly, and I think he's going to come. He doesn't, though. His hand snakes between my thighs and rubs me, and though it feels good, it creates distance between us I don't want. I push his hand away, but pull his body closer. Moments later, when he does come, the face he makes is beautiful beyond description. I don't care that I didn't come with him; it's enough to know that I brought him there.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

Eventually, we stop crying, but we stay in each other's arms. He's cradling me as he carries me to the bedroom, placing me on the center of the bed. He stretches out beside me, and I pull him back into my arms. When Edward finally speaks, it's not because the silence is uncomfortable—it's because there's so much left to be said.

"Why Chicago?" he asks.

"You're from Chicago. I didn't want to see you, but at the same time, I still wanted to feel connected to you. It's crazy, I know." I shrug, then add, "It made sense at the time."

"When you left, I thought you were going for a walk or for a drink...I never thought for a moment you were actually leaving me. I mean, I know you said you were, but I just didn't..."

"You didn't believe me."

"You'd never been out on your own before."

"So that's what this is about," I say, letting out a small laugh. "You didn't think I could do it."

"I underestimated you."

"Only because I let you," I say. "How did it feel to win a senate seat? You worked so hard for so long...the sense of accomplishment you must have felt. I can't even imagine..."

"How did it feel when you became a master sommelier?"

I laugh. "That's hardly the same thing."

"I'm not so sure about that; there are approximately the same number of master sommeliers as there are United States Senators."

"You Googled it."

"I did," he admits.

"It's cute."

"I like to know things, and I'd like to know you."

Figuring he's bound to ask eventually, I just blurt it out. "I voted for you."

"Whatever possessed you to say that?" He squirms against me, sighing. "I know you hate politics; we don't have to talk about this."

"Except your job _is_ politics—it's who you are."

"I'd think you of all people would know me better than that."

"I did once," I say. "My information is no longer current."

"You know everything that matters."

"Do I?"

"I love you," he says. "What else is there?"

"I don't know if you're seeing anyone–"

"I'm not. I'd like to be seeing you."

"You're toxic to me," I say.

"I was _then_. I'm not now. And I can prove it."

"How?"

"Spend the night with me."

My automatic answer does nothing to convince me this time will be any different. "Okay."

* * *

_**I've been bad at review replies, but I thought you'd rather have this chapter now. The song playing in 1995 is "Glory Box" by Portishead. Thanks for reading. **_


	13. Horizontal Wine Tasting

I don't own _Twilight._

For Elizabeth440.

Thanks to Nicole of the Twilight Fanfic Addicts Facebook group for rec'ing _Fall to Ruin One Day_, as well as all the lovely women on Twitter. Your enthusiasm is more appreciated than you know.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**Horizontal Wine Tasting**

* * *

**November 25, 1995**

Lying between Edward's legs with my head on his hip, it's as if one of life's great mysteries has been revealed. Now that I have an all-access pass to his penis, I can't stop touching it. I'm not trying to get it off—at the moment, it's relaxed and fleshy, and "needs to rest a bit" before it will harden again. But his dangly bits are new and different and something I don't have; therefore, they fascinate me.

"This doesn't bother you, does it?" I ask.

"What?"

"Me touching your...you know."

He laughs. "You can touch my...you know...whenever you want."

Smiling, I trace around the underside of the head. His skin is there slightly rougher than it is on the rest of his penis, but still impossibly soft.

"What about you?" he asks.

"What about me?"

"May I touch your...you know?"

"Yes," I say, giggling.

"You'll have to change position. From this angle, it's hard for me to reach."

I move up his body, but stop when he shakes his head.

"Just spin around so you're facing the foot of the bed," he says.

I do as he says before returning to my thorough study of his penis and ball sack. Then his fingers are inside me, and I concentrate on that. I think it can't possibly get any better, then I feel something wet and slightly textured above his hand, and though I've felt it before, I've never felt it _there._

I whip my head around to see he if he's doing what I think he's doing. The sensation stops when he starts to talk, and I have my answer.

"You'll like this," he says. "I promise."

He buries his head between my legs, and I'm unable to focus on anything but how good it feels. My hips move on their own, and I hear noises that I know must be coming from me even though I'm not consciously making them. When I come it's fast and hard.

I think I like this even more than I like real sex.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 22, 2009**

When Edward goes into the bathroom to change into pajamas, I get out of bed and snoop around his room. Superficially, it's not unlike the rest of his apartment—modern, masculine, uncluttered. Something about _this _space is different, and though I can't pinpoint why, it feels more like him. Maybe because some things here are familiar. The Declaration of Independence still hangs on the wall opposite his bed, and though there's still a framed picture of his mother on his dresser, it's now been joined by picture of Edward and me taken after his graduation from law school. His arms are around me and he's trying to fit me into his robe. It was happy and silly and I was blissfully ignorant that it was the beginning of the end for us. I pick up the frame so I can study it more closely. I look like a baby, but even more surprisingly, so does he.

When he comes out of the bathroom, I make no attempt to hide what I was doing.

"Where did you find this relic?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" He walks over to me and sees the picture in my hand. "Oh. I've always had that out. Even after..."

"I bet all your girlfriends loved that."

He crosses his arms across his chest as if he's annoyed, but I know by his smile he isn't.

"Is there something you'd like to ask me, Bella?"

There is, but I think his answer will kill me. "I don't think so."

"Are you genuinely undecided or just being passive-aggressive?"

"Oh, please. I've never had a passive-aggressive bone in my body." A thought occurs to me, and I giggle. "Except maybe while having sex with you."

"That was a boner, not a bone—and there was nothing passive-aggressive about it."

"No. Just the guy to whom it was attached. In all seriousness though, part of me _is _curious about the past decade. The rest of me doesn't want to know."

"I don't want you to think I'm hiding anything from you."

"I get that. At the same time..." I pause, staring at the floor. "This rug looks like it's the real deal. Persian?"

"Yes." He throws up his palms, shrugging. "What does _that _have to do with anything?"

"I'd never forgive myself if I puked all over it, and unless you tell me you spent the past decade in a monastery, I'm fairly sure that's how I'll react."

He shakes his head, laughing. "You _still_ say the first thing that pops into your head; I love that."

"Right. Tell me something—why do all politicians seem to dabble in revisionist history?"

"Why do I suspect your question is not theoretical?"

"Because it isn't. Come on—you couldn't possibly have forgotten all the times you warned me about saying what I'm thinking around your coworkers. The phrase 'potential liability' comes to mind."

His laughter stops, and for a few moments, there's silence. When he finally speaks, he seems contrite.

"I'm sorry, Bella."

I close my eyes and shake my head. I'm not trying to brush off his apology as much as I'm trying to brush off the memory of how it felt to realize the person I loved unconditionally placed conditions on his love for me. "Don't be; it's fine."

"It isn't fine—it was selfish and condescending. I have nothing to say for myself, except that I didn't realize at the time it hurt you as much as it did."

"It confused me more than anything else. When we first met, you said my lack of filter was one of the things you loved about me. Then you finished law school and started clerking, and I felt like I couldn't do anything right. Appearances had always been important to you, but it got to the point–"

"My priorities were wrong." He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls my back against his chest. "I think that's why election night felt so anti-climactic. By the time I won, I'd lost everything that mattered."

I flip the picture of us so it's facedown on his dresser; I don't want to think about the past.

Apparently, neither does he. His lips are on my cheek, my ear, my neck. I like that he's kissing me there, but it's not enough. I turn to face him, and kiss his mouth. He isn't hesitant the way he was when we were out in the hallway—this time, his kiss is hard and deep, and I can taste ten years of longing on his tongue.

He holds me tighter. It's all too familiar—his arms, his chest, his hardness. And I want him; I want him so much. But I want so much more than this moment. I want every moment we have left to breathe. I want to own his life the way he's always owned mine.

I put my hand over his heart and gently push him away. "I don't think I'm ready for this. Not that I don't want it, but..."

His breathing is labored as he nods. "It's okay. I mean...that's not why I asked you to spend the night." He glances down at his chest then smiles. "If I were trying to seduce you, I would have skipped the shirt...probably the pants, too."

I believe him, but not because of what he's wearing. I know what his seduction attempts are like, and spontaneity aside, they're more suave than this.

"May I borrow something to wear to bed?"

"Of course." He opens the top drawer of his dresser and hands me a white undershirt.

I'm unable to hide my smile as I go into the bathroom. I peek inside his medicine cabinet while brushing my teeth with his toothbrush. When I see bottles of Klonopin and Xanax, I spit into the sink. I close the cabinet door quickly and splash water on my face, hoping to cool my blush. As I strip out of my clothes, I try not to think about why he would need to take anxiety meds. Then I pull his undershirt over my head, and all I can think is how much it smells like him. And that makes me smile, even if I am a bit worried.

I come out of the bathroom to find him lying in bed on top of the covers. I stretch out beside him and as familiar as it feels, it's also different. Despite the fact I'm getting into bed with a United States Senator, he feels attainable—like despite earning a place in history, he's stepped down from his pedestal. When he was a law student, I could barely reach him. Now I think I may finally be able to hold him.

So I do.

"I want to know you again," he says. "I've missed so much of your life."

"You didn't," I say. "At least, not the way you think you did. The past ten years haven't feel real to me. I mean, I've done things. I have a great career. I've traveled. I've made some great friends. In that respect, I went on with my life. More often than not, though, it felt more like I was watching than actually participating. Kind of like a dream you expect to end any minute, but it never does."

"When did that start?" he asks.

"Christmas, when I left our apartment and hailed a cab to the airport."

"You went straight to the airport?"

"Yes."

He angles himself away from me and looks at my face. "Did you know where you were going?"

"Not until I got up to the ticket counter," I admit.

"And when you got off the plane?"

"I got the first hotel room I could find. Two days later, I found a roommate through the classified ads."

He shakes his head. "I can't believe you moved site unseen to a city where you knew no one."

"Oh, that changed quickly. My roommate looked out for me a lot—he still does. Even though I got my own place a couple years ago, he and I are still close friends."

"He?"

"Yes, _he._" I look down at the bed and trace my index finger along one of the stripes on the duvet.

"Why do I feel jealous?"

"_You_ have no business being jealous of anyone."

"Oh, I think I do," he says, laughing. "I may not have a _right_ to be jealous, but it would seem I have _reason_—you wouldn't be staring at the comforter if I didn't. So what's his name?"

"Carlisle." I know it will hurt him the same way I know hearing about him with someone else will hurt me. At the same time, I don't want him to think I'm ashamed of myself. "He actually reminds me a lot of you. You have different coloring, but freakishly similar facial features and mannerisms. Anyway, within minutes of meeting him, I knew I could trust him. We had kind of a friends-with-benefits thing, but never anything more than that. There wasn't any drama, but there wasn't any passion—for either of us. Anyway, about a year ago, he married a good friend of mine—she's the executive chef at his restaurant where I work."

"Does that get awkward—the three of you together like that?"

"Carlisle doesn't spend much time there, and even if he did it wouldn't matter. I introduced the two of them. Besides, my job is my happy place; it would take a lot more than that to make me uncomfortable at work."

"What else is there?"

"That's it. I live in Chicago. I work as a sommelier. I go to Europe once a year. My best friend is a dude. I still have no filter."

"Seriously? Ten years of your life can be reduced to five sentences?"

"Pretty much," I say, shrugging. "I'm sure it would take much longer for you to bring me up to speed."

"You already know everything."

"Uh uh." I shake my head. "I'm not talking about what I could see on C-SPAN or read in _People._"

"Neither am I. Most of what you'd learn there isn't true, anyway."

"Then tell me something that_ is _true."

He thinks for a moment; when he answers, he's staring at the ceiling. "The euphoria lasted about a minute. By the time the confetti began to fall, it was already over and I was back to feeling empty."

"What euphoria?"

"The thrill of winning a Senate seat. I'd always thought it would be this great rush, and everything I'd heard supported this. One of the party leaders went so far as to say it was better than sex–"

"And you wonder why everyone thinks politicians are liars," I say, laughing. "Nothing is better than sex."

"I beg to differ." He looks at me, and though his voice is teasing, his expression is intense. "Nothing is better than sex _with you_."

I close my eyes, sighing, "You're making me want more than anything to give you a refresher course."

"I wouldn't object–"

"It wouldn't help anything."

"I know." He threads his fingers through mine. "We should probably talk about something else."

"I'm worried about Alice."

"She says she's fine."

"Do you believe her?" I ask.

"No," he admits. "But until she's ready to tell me, there's nothing I can do—well, besides spend every spare minute I have with her, which is more or less what I've been doing."

"That makes me feel slightly better," I say, yawning. "I mean, if things were really bad, you'd know."

"I should let you get some rest; you must be exhausted."

"I don't want to waste any of my time with you."

"I'll be here when you wake up," he says, kissing my forehead. "I promise."

I wiggle my way underneath the covers as he turns off the light.

"May I hold you as you sleep?"

"Yes," I say, but it's a half-truth—I'd let him hold me forever.


	14. Ban de Vendage

Thanks to L J Summers and Bookishqua.

For Elizabeth440.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Ban de Vendage **

**

* * *

**

**November 26, 1995**

It's been five days. The five days I've spent with him have somehow erased the memory of the eighteen years that came before them. Much like the birth of Christ set Western calendars back to zero, Thanksgiving Break feels like the beginning of a new age. It's forever changed my life. Suddenly the thought of sleeping _without_ him fills me with far more trepidation than the thought of sleeping with him ever did. In five days, I've gotten used to his arms, his stubble, the heat of his skin. The softness of his body hair is no longer a surprise to me, nor is the hardness of his chest. But then there's the hardness of his thing, and I doubt I'll ever get used to that.

I don't want to think what today is, what it means for us. We haven't talked about it, and I wonder if he's been dreading my going back to my dorm as much I have. The indiglo display on his alarm confirms I still have several hours before I have to leave, and I'm determined to make the best of them. When I lie back in bed and press my body against his, it's the same as it's been the past few mornings—one part of his body rises before the rest of him does. And though he hasn't put it in me since that one time on Black Friday, I want him to more than anything. I think I'll forget how it feels if he doesn't. So I squeeze his butt cheeks with my hands and his thing between my thighs. My hips move, his hips follow suit, and when he starts making noises, I know he's done being poky and able to start poking. He rolls onto his back and positions me so I'm straddling him. He's impossibly hard, I'm impossibly wet, and when I lean forward to kiss his mouth, I expect him to put it in me.

Except he doesn't. He uses it to stroke me between my legs—up and down—but doesn't put it inside.

"Please," I whisper against his ear.

When I look at his face, he's smiling. I think maybe he's enjoying making me wait.

"Is there something you want?"

As if he doesn't know. "Huh?"

"Little girls ask for what they want, Bella. Big girls take it."

"I don't understand."

"This..." He presses it against me, and though it's so close—just a fraction of an inch—and it might as well be miles away. "...is yours. And it can make you come if you fuck it. So if that's what you want..."

"Yes," I whisper.

"Then you know what to do."

Except I don't know what to do. The last time we did this, he did all the work.

"Do you want it in you?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Do you want to make it come?"

"Yes."

"Do _you_ want to come? Because that's what I want..."

"Yes."

"Then do it."

"Huh?"

"Just sit."

So I do, and without realizing what I'm doing, I bring him inside me.

"That's it, Bella." He puts his hands on my shoulders and nudges me so that I'm kneeling astride him. "Now move however feels good."

When I wiggle my hips slightly to get my balance, my boobs bounce to the best of their limited ability. Feeling self-conscious, I cross my arms over my chest.

"Don't hide them." He takes one of my hands in his and drags it down the front of my body. With our fingers entwined, he strokes me _there_, and I can't help but move.

I feel hot, I feel full, and if didn't hear myself moaning, I'd think I wasn't capable of breathing. I'm tightening everywhere—around him, in my belly, and when I finally let go, I feel it everywhere.

My first cognizant thought is that this is worth the hype.

**-o-O-o-**

We're in my dorm room all of five minutes before Alice arrives.

"Edward, go away. Izzy won't talk about you as long as you're here."

"You'd think I was your guest or something," he mutters, shaking his head.

"Aren't you?" Her eyes dart from me to her brother, then back to me. Her eyes are huge as she claps a hand over her half-scream. "Oh my god! I knew it," she says, bouncing the same way she does when she's drunk and needs to pee.

I'm looking at her as I whisper to Edward, "I'd be afraid I'd get stuck like that."

"Haven't you noticed?" he asks. "She more or less _is. _And on that note, I'll be going."

I follow him as far as the door. Not only am I not ready to say goodbye to him just yet, but I'm not all that enthused at the prospect of the third degree I realize is imminent.

"I can see myself out." He's standing in the hallway, looking in my direction but not at me when he adds, "I'll call you."

His tone is impersonal, and though I want to think he's talking to me, but he could just as well be talking to Alice. It feels almost like a rejection, and though I want to run after him, I can't—Alice grabs me by the hand and pulls me onto her bed.

I sit on the edge and brace myself. I expect her to start firing off a million questions a minute, but she doesn't, and that only makes me more nervous. She pushes her pillow and baby Simba aside and sits in their place, just looking at me. I pick up Simba and hug him against my stomach; I think I know what's coming.

"You're not a virgin anymore, are you?"

"No," I admit. It's the first time I've said it out loud, and it sounds like a lie even though it's the truth.

She nods but doesn't say anything else.

I can't take the silence. "You knew this would happen–"

"Yes and no," she says. "I didn't think it would happen so fast."

"Does it bother you?"

"Not the way you think it does. I'm just..." She shakes her head, sighing. "I just want you to know that whatever happens between the two of you, I'm still your best friend. He's my brother and I love him, but I love you, too."

Though it feels like a Psychic Friends Network moment, I don't ask her if she's having a gut feeling. I don't need to feed my relationship insecurities with a hefty helping of fatalism.

**-o-O-o-**

I wait until Alice is asleep before dragging the phone out into the hallway. The standard-issue gray wire is just long enough for me to be able to shut the door to our room behind me. I sink crossed-legged onto the floor; even through my jeans, the floor feels cold. I place the phone at my side and the bell inside it makes a quick clang that echos through the mostly-empty corridor. When I pick up the beige plastic receiver and dial Edward's number, he answers immediately. I know he's probably sitting at his desk barefoot, still wearing the jeans and flannel shirt he had on when he brought me back to my dorm.

I haven't missed anything—more than likely, he's just studying—but it seems as if I have. That makes me sad, and my sadness makes me feel a little pathetic. Then I remind myself that he's my boyfriend and it's okay to miss him and need him and wish I weren't headed into an extra-long twin bed alone tonight.

"I wish you hadn't left," I say.

"It wasn't _that_ bad, was it?"

He's talking about Alice's cross-examination. I don't think it occurs to him that as far as I'm concerned, the worst is yet to come.

"She took one look at me and knew we..." I look around. There are other people in the corridor, and though they're not close enough to hear what I'm saying, I lower my voice to a whisper just in case. "..._you know_."

"I'm not surprised," he says laughing.

It's not the response I expect, and though I know it's irrational, I can't control where my mind goes.

"Why? Are you in the habit of doing _that _with all of your houseguests?"

I regret saying it even before the silence on the other end implies he's pissed at me.

"Isabella." His use of my full name confirms it. "I'm going to assume that was something you said without thinking and that you didn't mean to cheapen the significance of the last five days."

He's speaking out of anger, but it's the most assurance he's ever given me, so I cling to it. My face is hot, my palms are sweaty, and as tempting as it is to speak emotionally, I know he won't respect that. Taking deep breaths, I count to ten and formulate my response.

"It's impossible to devalue something that has yet to be appraised..." I blow all the remaining air out of my lungs and rest my back against the door to my room. I can't believe some people put that much thought into everything they say; I'm fucking exhausted from a single sentence.

"You want to know what you mean to me."

I do, but I'm afraid to say so. I don't think there's any way I can mean as much as to him as he means to me. After this morning, I'm not ready for that kind of reality check.

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

"This morning..."

"What about it?"

"I hate the thought of you doing _that _with anyone but me," I admit.

"It doesn't particularly appeal to me, either."

"The difference is you have."

"You think this is about sex for me."

"I didn't, but then you didn't even kiss me goodbye, and now I don't know what to think."

"Oh," he says after a pause. "I think I understand now."

"Good thing one of us does."

"I didn't think of it as a goodbye. I mean, I'm right across town–"

"And I miss you so much already."

"I do nothing but study during the week anyway. I explained this to you..."

"I know."

"You just have to make it until Friday. On weekends, I'm all yours." He sounds as if he's trying to reassure me, and it almost works.

The problem is that I want to be with him all the time.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 23, 2009 **

It's been a decade, but it's still all too familiar. I wake up in his arms, my borrowed t-shirt having ridden up my body at some point during the night. He's hard even though he's asleep—the evidence is poking into my back. I've had this dream too many times to count, and I know what to do about it. I slide my hand into my panties and pretend I'm not alone. It isn't until I feel his warm sigh against my neck that I realize I'm not.

"Don't stop on my account."

Oh shit.

"I didn't mean to...I mean I did...but I forgot where I was, and I thought I was having a very real sexual fantasy."

"About?" he asks.

"What do you think?"

His chest rumbles against my back as he laughs.

"This might be the most mortifying moment of my life," I mutter. "And you know me, and that's quite a statement..."

"Blame my raging hard-on," he says, laughing. "We'll call it even."

"This is real isn't it?"

"It always was."

We lie there in silence and he absentmindedly drags his fingertips back and forth along the side of my body, from the bottom of my ribcage to the top of my cotton bikini underwear.

"This right here." He rests his hand below my waist where my hips are at their fullest. "This is new."

"What?"

"_This_," he says, cupping the fleshy part of my hip. "You didn't have this ten years ago."

"Cellulite?" I ask, only half-kidding.

"No, curves. I like them...they make you softer."

"You're hard enough for the both of us."

"Touchè," he says. "I want to try again."

"This isn't the time to have this conversation–"

"Why not? Do you want to waste another decade?"

"No. But I know nothing has changed."

"_Everything _has changed," he insists.

"I'm not talking about the size of my ass."

"Neither am I, Bella. Just... please give me this weekend. If you still think we can't work, I won't try to convince you otherwise. But if you decide you want to try, I'll do whatever it takes."

I don't think before I answer; I don't want to second-guess myself and take it back.

"Yes."

* * *

_Fall to Ruin One Day _won a Sparkleteer Award for Best Story in the Diamond in the Rough category. Thanks so much for voting! Elizabeth440 was kind enough to start a thread on Twlighted for me; the link is my profile. As always, thank you for reading.


	15. Monopole

I don't own Twilight.

Thanks to bookishqua and LJSummers.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Monopole**

**

* * *

**

**November 30, 1995**

Though Alice had been typing away at her computer the entire time I was on the phone with my mother, I don't even bother to pretend she wasn't listening.

"Could this get any worse?"

"Probably," she says. "Don't tempt fate."

"I mean...ugh!" I flop onto my bed, groaning.

"They're making you choose?"

"My mom wants me to see her new place in Arizona; my dad expects me back in Forks. And I don't want to be in the middle, right? So I should visit one and then the other. But I don't want to set the expectation that's what I'll do on every holiday. I could swing it this time, but I can't afford to make a habit of it. I knew when I decided to come here that I wouldn't be able to go home much unless I got a part-time job, and I really didn't want to have to work this year."

"If your parents want you to fly all over the place, they should pay for your tickets."

"Right. Unfortunately, they have limited resources and an endless capacity for guilt." I shrug. "They've always been like this."

"Then you shouldn't feel guilty. Edward never does; when he was at Harvard he never came home for Christmas. He always went skiing with his girlfriend's family."

"Girlfriend?" I know there were girls before me—that would be obvious even if he hadn't told me, which he had. Still, it's weird to think of them, and though part of me doesn't want to know, another part of me has never wanted to know anything more.

"Well, she's his ex-girlfriend now, but yeah."

"He went on ski trips with her family?"

"They were together four years. I think her parents expected him to propose after graduation; he broke up with her instead."

I want more than anything for her to elaborate, even though I'm afraid of what I may find out. But she doesn't say anything else—she just turns back to her computer.

"Why?" I ask.

"Why did they break up?"

As if she wouldn't want to know if she were me.

"Yeah."

"He doesn't talk about stuff like that with me."

"But you met her..."

"Yes."

"So you must have come to your own conclusion."

"I don't think he felt as if he could trust her."

Alice resumes typing on her computer, so I don't press her for any more information.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 23, 2009**

"I've never done this," I say, studying my reflection in the bathroom mirror. "At my age, it feels kind of ridiculous."

"Done what?"

"The walk of shame. You know, when you're forced to go home in yesterday's clothes with sex hair and smudged eye make-up, and everyone who looks at you just _knows_."

He leans against the marble countertop and folds his arms across his chest. "How can you have sex hair if we didn't have sex?"

"You don't have to have had sex to have sex hair. You can get it through other things, like making out or dry humping–"

"Osmosis from thinking dirty thoughts?"

"Ha. Right."

"Seriously, Bella. Are you honestly ashamed of spending the night with me?"

If anything, I'm ashamed we did nothing that would give me reason to feel shame. Despite his insistence otherwise, part of me feels as if his request to try again wasn't real—that it was as much a figment of my imagination as the sexual fantasy which compelled me to put my hand in my underwear. If that's the case, I may have just missed the last opportunity I'll ever have to make love. Not sex—I can have that whenever I want it—but the experience of giving my body to the person who owns my soul.

I give him a small smile. "Not as much as I'd be if I hadn't."

I look at him and, as familiar as he is, he's different. Ten years ago, I would have insisted it wasn't possible for him to be more attractive than he already was—and now he is. Though the copper stubble on his face is what I'd come to expect in the morning before he'd gotten a chance to shave, the jawline it covers is more angular than what I remember. His hair is how it always was first thing in the morning—the tousled, artfully messy look that makes me want to run my fingers through it and make it even messier—but now there are strands of silver mixed in with the auburn. And I want to know if hair around his navel is the same color I remember, or if that's different, too. I realize I'm as fascinated with the idea of exploring his body as I was when I was eighteen—cataloguing what's new along with what has stayed the same. As much as I loved his body before, I want it to have changed. I need to believe the years that have passed affected him as much as they have me, that his aging is a physical manifestation of his emotional maturation. I need him to be different so we don't end up the same way.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

"You're going gray."

He rolls his eyes. "Last night, it was wrinkles. Today it's gray hair. Are you trying to give me a complex?"

"No," I say, laughing.

"Then what?" He pulls his shirt over his head and steps out of his pajama pants.

I don't lower my eyes, but the reflection of his bare butt cheeks in the mirror would seem to indicate he's naked. I mentally mark his propensity for whipping it out on a whim as one for the 'things that haven't changed' category.

"As you can see, I'm none the worse for wear," he says, smiling.

And I want to look, but I can't look. If I look, I'll want to touch. If I touch, I'll want to taste. If I taste, I'll want to swallow. If I swallow, it will never be enough.

It's already too much.

"You might want to put that away."

"I thought you'd never ask," he says, grabbing at the hem of my t-shirt.

I smack his hand away.

"What?" he asks. "You _told_ me to put it away. You know as well as I do where it belongs."

"You'd think you were a sex-starved teenager."

"Well—as you've pointed out—I have gray hair and wrinkles, so I think it's safe to assume the latter part of that is definitely not the case."

"And the former?"

"It's complicated," he says, shrugging.

He walks over to the shower and turns on the water. "I'd invite you to join me, but I don't think you'd find the temperature to your liking."

"Still taking showers so hot they scorch your flesh?" I cross the room and place my hand under the stream of water. "Holy shit, that's cold."

"I'm used to it."

"Right. Because an independently wealthy, unmarried United States Senator who has been called one of the sexiest men alive clearly would have difficulty getting action." I shake my head, sighing. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why do I take cold showers?"

"I understand their purpose; I want to know why you felt compelled to _tell _me you take them. Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

"Actually, I was trying to make you feel better. You keep making these comments about how you think I've spent the past ten years, then when I try to clarify things, you either change the subject or say you don't want to know."

"Because I _don't_ want to know!"

"That's the problem—I do. Not only do I want to know you, I want you to know me."

"You wanted me to know you're horny; I get it."

"No, Bella. Relationships are complicated for someone in my position; therefore, I typically don't have them. You have this perception of the person I've become, and it's not at all flattering. I don't know; maybe you need to see me that way. Maybe it makes some of decisions you've made in your life a little easier on your palate. But if you meant what you said earlier—that you were willing to try again—then you have to see me for who I really am."

"I see a man who enjoys great power and who could have anything or anyone he wants."

"How can you see anything? You won't even look. I'm standing in front of you–"

"And you're naked."

"In _every_ sense of the word—and you're completely oblivious to it."

"Believe me, I noticed you were naked."

"Then look at me! Look at _me, _Bella."

So I do. His body is hard, his penis is soft, and though he's yet to step under the shower head, his face is wet.

"I want you. I've spent a decade wanting something I couldn't have with someone who moved halfway across the country to get away from me. I'm used to doing without. _That's_ what I wanted you to know."

I throw my arms around him with such force it knocks him off-balance, causing us to stumble into the shower. Frigid water soaks my t-shirt and though I'm freezing, I don't move. I couldn't even if I wanted to—not because he's holding me too tightly, even though he is. It's because he's right. I need to know how he feels, what he's done, and who he's become. If shivering through ice-cold showers is something he endures, I need to endure it, too.

He pulls back from me and cups my face. I think he's going to kiss me, but instead he stares at me, shaking his head.

"Your lips are turning blue," he says.

"I don't care."

"I do."

He increases the temperature of the water flow gradually so our bodies have time to adjust. My t-shirt is completely see-through and when his eyes roam over my body, he smiles. I expect him to make a comment, but he doesn't.

"Turn around," he whispers.

Assuming he wants privacy for something, I comply. The next thing I know, he's rubbing shampoo into my hair, massaging my scalp with his fingertips.

"I missed this," he says.

As we finish getting ready for the day, we pretend there's nothing remarkable about being in each other's company. We know the opposite is true.

**-o-O-o-**

When Edward brings me back to Alice's apartment, she opens the door wearing an elf hat.

"You're just time," she says. "Sing with me, Big Brother!"

"Have you started using Bailey's in your coffee instead of half and half?" he asks. "Because this isn't like you."

Except he's wrong. It _is _like Alice—I know from having shared a dorm room with her for fours years that she loves cheesy, whiny Christmas music with a passion of equal intensity to the one I have for cheese and wine.

I also know she hasn't done the Christmas thing in a decade because Edward hates Christmas, and that Edward hates Christmas because of me.

"I decided there's no reason to wait until after Thanksgiving to get in the holiday spirit," she explains. "If I want to hear Christmas music, I'll play it. It just so happens that WASH-FM has taken care of it for me. The only thing missing is you."

"Sorry, Alice," he says. "The email about Karen Carpenter Christmas Karaoke must have gotten lost in my spam folder. I didn't have a chance to Google song lyrics, so unfortunately you're out of luck."

"How can you _not_ remember this song from our childhood?"

"I'm not sure whose childhood to which you're referring, but it certainly couldn't be ours." He turns to me. "Our father only listened to classical music and despite what the fact she gave birth to Alice would imply, our mother had better taste than this."

Alice rolls her eyes. "It's just us—we're all family here. You don't have to worry about your approval rating going down because once upon a time you donned blinking reindeer antlers and sang along with Wham."

"I don't know what she's talking about," he says to me. "I've never–"

"Oh, don't even." She shakes her head, and the silver bells on her elf hat jingle. "I can produce photographic evidence of the antlers."

"–listened to Wham." He acts as if he's annoyed, but when he looks at her, his face lights up. "Wait. Maybe I have." He snaps his fingers in a moment of feigned realization. "Isn't that the soundtrack to a kung-fu movie?"

They continue teasing each other, and it's obvious they're as close as they ever were. Though I know their childhood was far from idyllic, I'm a little envious. They've always had each other. No matter what happens, they always will.

* * *

**Thanks for reading.**


	16. Lie

I don't own _Twilight_.

Huge thanks to bookishqua and LJ Summers, snarky betas extraordinaire, as well as JosieSwan and Limona for being there. This story is for Elizabeth440, whom I would like to abduct and watch old _Ally McBeal _episodes with whilst funneling armagnac (in a totally non-stalker way). Meanwhile, Mel just finished a semester back in college, and that's brave and awesome.

Thank you to writingbabe who was kind enough to mention _Fall to Ruin One Day_ in her author's note.

* * *

_**Chapter Fifteen**_

_**Lie**_

**

* * *

**

**December 1, 1995**

Though Edward said he was at my disposal on weekends, I don't know exactly what that means. I want to think that I'll be sleeping at his place, but he hasn't indicated one way or the other if I will be, and packing a bag seems premature. When Alice comes in from dinner, I'm standing in front of my open closet while staring at my empty backpack like a tool.

"You're being silly," Alice says. "It's just Edward. It's not as if you're going out with someone intimidating."

"You don't think he's intimidating?"

"You're kidding, right?" She laughs. "I'll have to dig up pictures of him when he was twelve. If Alex P. Keaton had red hair and pimples, he and Edward could be twins—no joke."

This isn't at all helpful—I always thought Alex P. Keaton was kind of scary. Furthermore, I don't believe for a second Edward ever had pimples, but I'm not about to argue with Alice.

"Did he say where he's bringing you?"

"We don't have specific plans, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to pack some clothes for the weekend or not."

"Call him and ask," she says, gesturing to the phone.

"If I do that—and he wasn't planning on having me stay at his place for the whole weekend—doesn't that make me seem kind of...I don't know..."

"Prepared?" she offers.

"I was thinking more along the lines of presumptuous."

She walks across the room to her desk. "This problem is easily solved."

"Please don't call him for me; that will make things even worse."

"I'm not." After opening the top drawer, she hands me a small black ball. "You should ask the oracle."

"A Magic 8-Ball?"

She throws up her palms, shrugging. "It's never once failed me."

"Let me get this straight. Your infamous 'gut feelings' actually come from a piece of plastic mass-produced in China?"

"As if!" She closes her desk drawer, clearing her throat. "I suppose if you want to be technical, _some _of them come from the white icosahedron die _inside_ said piece of plastic."

I turn it over and wait for the message to appear. "It says, 'Cannot predict now.' Remind me why you think this is useful?"

"You're not cooperating," she says. "It's a Magic 8-Ball, not Jo-Jo's Psychic Alliance. You have to ask the question out loud before it can actually answer you."

"I feel like an enormous dork."

"Would you rather feel like a presumptuous dork?" she asks.

Even I have to admit her point is valid.

Sighing, I turn the ball over in my hand so that the number eight faces up. "Should I pack an overnight bag?" I flip my wrist so I can see the window, and ever so slowly, the answer appears. "Signs point to yes," I read. I hand it back to Alice and pull the scrunchy out of my hair, groaning. "I can't take that as gospel!"

"The 8-Ball is truth, Izzy."

Alice's life is mere seconds away from coming to a tragic end when there's a knock at the door.

"It's open," she says.

"You know," Edward says as he steps into our room, "what you just did is completely unsafe. I could have been anyone."

"But you aren't," she says.

"But you didn't know that."

"How do _you _know?" She holds up the 8-Ball, smiling.

"I'm not sure what I find more disturbing," he says. "The fact you still have that thing or the fact that you still love it enough to have dragged it halfway across the country to college with you."

I turn to Edward. "The 8-Ball is nothing. She has Debbie Gibson's entire catalogue under her bed."

When he laughs, she smacks him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll have you know _Lost In Your Eyes _is a lovely ballad."

"Does Alice still sing along to it?" he asks me.

"At the top of her lungs."

"I must have missed the note on the dry-erase board establishing December first as National Rip On Alice Day. If you're both going to be like that, I'm going to go hang out in the lounge."

The door shuts behind her, and it's just Edward and me. I want to hug him and kiss him, but I feel weird just _going_ for it; and since he's made no gestures of physical affection toward me since he got here, I'm not entirely sure my advances are welcome. Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure of anything—except the fact it's awkward as hell.

"So..." He claps his hands together in front of his chest. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes!" I say before realizing that I'm not. "I mean, I _can_ be. I'm just not sure what our plans are..."

"Well, first we should go back to my apartment and drop off your stuff. I figured we'd decide what we wanted to do from there."

"My stuff?"

"I suppose you don't_ have_ to bring anything with you. You only need clothes if we go anywhere, and I certainly don't have any problem staying in bed all weekend."

After a moment of blankly staring into space, one of the corners of his mouth twitches, and I know he's having dirty thoughts. Then his eyes meet mine, and he licks his lips—and I realize he's having dirty thoughts _about me._ And I want to make a deal to tell him mine if he tells me his—because I think dirty things about him all the time. But I keep it to myself—after all, we have all weekend to talk about that stuff.

At least, I _think_ we do. I still don't know for sure.

"Is that an invitation?" I ask.

"To my bed?" He puts his arms around me and pulls me against him. "You _know_ I want you there."

Whether or not he wants to go to bed with me isn't the question. He's a guy; I'm going to assume he does. It's everything else I'm unsure of.

"No, I meant to spend the weekend with you at your place."

"You should know I want you there, too."

"Except you never actually asked me, and I didn't want to assume..."

"I always want to spend time with you."

It's exactly what I needed to hear, and I'm able to relax a bit. As I toss a change of clothes and some essentials into my backpack, I think maybe I misunderstood him when he said that he was unavailable during the week.

"I'm ready," I say as I zip my bag closed.

"Are these your keys?" he asks.

"They're Alice's; she must have forgotten them. We can give them to her on our way out." I step out into the hallway and gesture for him to follow. "Come on."

He shakes his head. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"I don't think so." After I make sure the door is locked, I turn to leave.

He reaches for my hands and pulls me into him, pressing my back against the wall. "It was a long week."

"Too long," I say.

"It was harder than I thought it would be."

Except I feel it pressed against me, and it feels exactly the same way it felt last weekend. But I don't analyze it—it's impossible for me to think while he's kissing me. So I don't; I just feel—and I feel so much. Then he stops, and disappointment replaces all the good feelings I was having. He has my backpack draped over one of his shoulders as he leads me down the hall to the stairwell.

"Let's get you home," he says.

I'm excited to be with him, but I know two days out of seven will never be enough.

"You know," I say, "most weeknights, I'm studying, too. Maybe you could visit me here, and we could study together."

"Oh, I've never been able to study in the dorms—not even when I lived in one. I couldn't handle the noise or the obnoxiousness that almost always occurs when you put a few hundred eighteen to twenty-two-year-olds under one roof."

"No one here is obnoxious; this is an honors dorm." I push open the door to the lounge. "Seriously, no one even really talks to each other, and when they do, even that is schoolwork-related. The one time things got loud it wasn't because people were drunk or stoned; they were having an overly passionate discussion about Kant."

I scan the room for Alice. Like about a dozen other people, she's lying on the floor with a pen and paper, paying very close attention to a guy reading aloud from a computer print-out.

"Question one-hundred-sixty-six," the flannel-wearing douche of ceremonies announces. "Have you ever masturbated onto a houseplant? Question number one-hundred-sixty-seven—have you ever masturbated with a houseplant?" He raises his hand, flashing his palm to the group. "Listen to the rest of this before you make that check mark—they want to know specifically if you've ever used a houseplant to _rub_ yourself. This means that if you and a houseplant have masturbated simultaneously—but there was no _mutual_ masturbation—it doesn't count!"

"Kant, huh? Are you sure they weren't spelling it C-U-N-T?" Edward whispers, laughing.

My cheeks are on fire, but not because I'm embarrassed. It's safe to say that thanks to this, I won't have a prayer of getting any mid-week visits in the foreseeable future—and it freaking infuriates me.

"Excuse me." I step over several people on my way over to Alice. "I just wanted to give my roommate her keys. And while we're talking about rubbing foliage on our...well..._you know_...there's this outside plant that feels really good...down there. Anyway, it's kind of like a vine, and the leaves grow in clusters of three. You should try it some time. Have a nice weekend!" After waving goodbye, I grab Edward by the hand and pull him out of the dorm and into the crisp December air.

After we step onto the pavement, he doubles over, laughing so hard his face is almost as red as his hair.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"You're amazing," he says. "Do you get what you just did?"

"Uh...yeah?" I don't know where he's going with this—I mean, it's not as if I've been drinking and I blacked out.

"You just told a room full of your classmates—who by the way were in the middle of taking the _Purity Test_—that poison ivy makes a quality jizz rag!" He throws my bag up onto his back and puts his arm around my shoulder. "I love...that you did that."

And I know that it's real...that he feels the same way I do.

So I tell him. "I love it, too."

**-o-O-o-**

**November 23, 2009**

It isn't until my phone beeps that I remember there's a world outside of Edward and Alice. I illuminate its display to find four text messages from Carlisle, the most recent of which consists of only three words:

_Are you okay?_

I know better than to even try to bring him up to speed in a text message, so I call him.

"She lives!" he says when he answers the phone.

"I know I promised I'd text you guys when my plane landed; I'm sorry if you were worried. I've been kind of wrapped up in stuff..."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?'

I'm not sure how to answer him. "I guess you could say it's one of _those_ things."

"Ah," he says. "I take it you've seen the senator?"

"Yes."

"How did that go?"

"He claims he wants to try again."

One of the best (and sometimes worst) things about my closest male friend marrying my closest female friend is that advice always comes in club packs. This is why I'm not at all surprised when after a long pause, it's Esme who responds.

"What were his exact words?"

"He said, 'I want to try again.'"

"Don't do it," she says.

"But I _want _to try–"

"Like the way you've spent the past ten years _trying_ to get over him? And how has that worked for you?"

I pretend her question is rhetorical, even though I know it's not.

"Obviously, it hasn't," she continues. "And would you like to know why?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me whether I say 'yes' or no..."

"Because you've never told yourself you were going to learn to love your life without him in it; you've only ever committed to _trying_."

"Without trying, you never know if you'll succeed," I remind her.

"That's where you're wrong," she insists. "It establishes failure as an option, and that won't work. You need to set the bar a bit higher. Unless he's able to look you in the eye and promise you this time things will be different—that he's willing to make sacrifices for you on a comparable level to the ones you made for him—then nothing else he says matters."

"Are you still there, Carlisle?" I ask.

Carlisle is romantic in a way Esme is not; of the two of them, he's more likely to risk it all on a whim.

"Yes," he says. "We have you on speaker."

"If you were in my position..." I swallow hard, hoping it will steady my voice.

"I kept it, you know—the letter you wrote me not long after you left him. I'm not sure where it is, but as soon as we get off the phone, I'm going to try to find it."

"What good will that do?" I ask.

"Izzy, you went to bed crying every night for years. Maybe if you read it in your own words, you'll remember how awful he made you feel–"

"He was just as miserable as I was. I know that now."

"Because he told you?" Esme's voice is gentle; it's her words that sting. "I love you, Iz—and I want more than anything for you to be happy. I'm not saying that I don't think you should hear him out. I think it would be good for you get to know who he is outside of your idealized memories of who he _was._

"He's made you the romantic equivalent of a campaign promise. It's nice to hear, but ultimately, it's meaningless."

"You didn't see him," I say. "Esme, he was crying. He _cried_."

"So has Bill Clinton. Would you want to be married to him?"

"I believe he was sincere."

"He may very well have been," Carlisle says. "Then again, he could have been faking it—only time will tell. But you need to remember _what _he is."

I snort. "The sexiest man alive?"

"Yes," he says. "And why does _People Magazine _even know he exists? Because he's a politician. And let's be real here—politicians are nothing more than actors with power fetishes and mob ties."

"I seriously doubt he has mob ties."

"Maybe not, but remember grad school? You can't, because you didn't go."

"We all know I would have hated grad school. Regardless of how it came about, that worked out for the best. I adore my job."

"That's why you have to be sure," she says. "This time, you have so much more at stake."

By the time I hang up, the residual euphoria from my morning with Edward feels as far away as my eighteen-year-old self. In its place is the cautious pragmatism one would expect from a woman of certain life experiences who is painfully aware of what she stands to lose—it's far too much, so I want to give up.

And I almost do.

Then I remember what Edward said on the plane. "I've kept the same cell number and email address to this day. So you'd have a means to contact me—just in case you changed your mind, if you decided you'd acted that day on anger or haste..."

And I need to know if he was telling the truth—because if that was true, then I'd have no reason to doubt the sincerity of what he's said since. My phone is in my hand; all I have to do is remember his number. Of course I do—I'll never forget.

It never rings; there's a pause and a click, and he speaks—not with the voice he has now, but the one I hear in my dreams.

_"Please don't hang up, Bella. Just...please. You're hearing my voice, and I want more than anything to hear yours...but if you don't want to talk to me...if you've dialed by mistake or by habit, or if you called me on impulse and you've already changed your mind...Please, Bella. Please...just listen. I'm not sure how we got here, but I miss you. I need you. I love you. I think I always will."_

_

* * *

This chapter (like every chapter in this story) gets its title from either a drink or wine terminology. _In this case, _lie_ is the French term for the dead yeast and sediment of wine. The Purity Test is a real internet meme with a rich history. The 2k question version was all the rage in Winter of 1995.

As always, thanks for reading.


	17. Spiked Eggnog

I don't own _Twilight._

For elizabeth440._  
_

_

* * *

_

**_Chapter Sixteen_**

**_Spiked Eggnog_**

* * *

**December 1, 1995**

Sitting Indian-style on his bed, I fill him in on the events of the past week. The fact he's barefoot and shirtless makes it difficult for me to pay attention to the conversation, but I'm not about to ask him to cover up. I like his chest too much, and the way his skin takes on an almost ethereal quality in the dim light. I want to see more of his skin, to touch it, to touch him. I kind of want to jump his bones. Unfortunately for me, he hasn't so much as kissed me since we got to his apartment. It makes me feel weird, and I start to wonder if maybe his feelings for me have already begun to wane. Then I remember what he said outside my dorm earlier and how it seemed as if he was on the verge of telling me he loved me. I focus on that and try not to be bothered by his apparent disinterest in getting me naked.

"Is a plane ticket to Phoenix at this point even economically feasible for you?" he asks.

"It will pretty much clean me out. I'll probably have to get a part-time job in January to make up for it, which I really didn't want to do my first year. I just don't know what else to do without making it seem as if I'm choosing my dad over my mom."

"Who would you rather see?"

"None of the above?" My right shoulder raises in a small shrug. "If it were up to me, I'd spend Christmas with you."

I'm almost afraid to see his reaction. I've already imposed on him for one major holiday; I don't want him to think I'm pushing things to move forward more quickly than they should. When I'm finally able to look at his face, one corner of his mouth is twitching. He doesn't say anything.

"You're fighting a smile. Why?"

"You," he says.

I reach forward and clasp his hands, threading my fingers through his. "What about me?"

"You make me happy."

Hearing him say that makes _me_ happy, and I couldn't prevent it from showing on my face if I tried, which of course I don't.

"Then why not just smile?"

"Habit, I suppose. I don't like for people to look at me and know what I'm thinking."

"Except you told me."

"Yes," he says.

"Doesn't that make the poker face a waste of effort? I mean, I know."

"Only because I wanted you to know."

"Practicing for your Presidential campaign already?"

"Not exactly," he says, laughing. "But it's impossible for others to exploit your emotions if they don't know what you're feeling."

I study his face. He doesn't appear guarded—if anything, he seems relaxed. But I know his filter is engaged—it would have to be. Otherwise, he wouldn't have suppressed his smile. I try to imagine what it would be like to live that way, but I can't even wrap my mind around the concept.

"Are you really _on_ all the time?"

"On?" he asks.

"Like, does your censor ever sleep?"

"Not typically."

"Not even when we..." My shoulders hunch forward, and I exhale in a gush, shaking my head. Even though we've done the deed, I can't bring myself to say the words.

He's looking at me like he's waiting for me to complete my sentence, and though I suspect he knows exactly what I'm asking, he isn't going to help.

"You _know_," I say. "Do you let go then?"

He smiles. "Intimate moments are an obvious exception."

I want to jump his bones even more than I did before—not just because I'm horny and want to play with his thing, but because I want to become better acquainted with the real Edward.

He drops my hand and brushes his thumb across my cheek. "I love being with you like that."

"Seriously?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he asks, laughing.

"We've been here three hours, and you haven't even kissed me."

"That's not because I don't want to; I just know it won't stop at kissing. I don't want you to think this is just about sex for me, and tearing your clothes off the second we get home would be bad form—even if I do have every intention of tearing them off sooner or later."

"Do you think you could maybe tear them off sooner?"

"You make it impossible to resist." He pulls me against his chest and lowers his mouth to mine.

Except he does resist. The kiss he gives me is brief and light—chaste even. I'm about to call him on his affinity for teasing me, that I'm starting to think he gets off on being in control, but he speaks before I get the chance.

"Were you serious earlier when you said you wanted to spend Christmas with me? Because you know you're welcome here."

This time, I don't stop myself from jumping him. He doesn't appear to mind.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 24, 1995**

For the first time since I was little, Christmas feels magical. Edward buys a small tree and some lights, not realizing he has no ornaments until we get back to his apartment. So we cut snowflakes out of white printer paper and make stars from tin foil. It's totally MacGyvered, but I love it because it's something I made with him. I know without a doubt I love him, too.

I'm sitting on the floor in front of the tree in my pale-blue chemise—it's still the only piece of real lingerie I own.

"Eggnog," Edward says, handing me a glass.

My eyes widen after I take a sip; it doesn't taste like the eggnog I'm used to drinking.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" I ask.

He laughs. "Eggnog has alcohol in it by definition. You're supposed to use rum and bourbon, but I don't keep that around, so I used Glenfiddich."

"Scotch?" I stare into the glass then look back at him. "Seriously?"

"Yes. Don't tell Alice. If my father found out I diluted single malt, I'll never hear the end of it."

He twists his wrist, staring at the thick liquid as it coats the inside of his glass. It's the first time he's mentioned his father casually. I want to hear more about his childhood, but he doesn't elaborate and I don't want to pry.

"Is this something I should let breathe?" I ask.

He startles slightly, then shakes his head. I think I might have just caught him fidgeting—that it was one of his rare unguarded moments. It's out of character for him, and I'm not sure how to react. The silence is awkward, and I feel like I have to fill it.

"Thank you," I say. "For everything."

"I want to be real for you...I mean, I want this Christmas to feel real."

"Everything is perfect. I just wish..."

"What?" he asks.

"I know you said you didn't want me to give you a gift, but you've done so much for me. I feel ungrateful."

"I said I didn't want you to _buy _me a gift, not that there was nothing you could give me."

"What?"

"Head."

"What about your head?"

"I want you to go down on me."

I swallow. Then I wonder if I'll even be able to swallow. "Right now?"

"Whenever you want to...assuming you want to."

"Okay." I don't move.

He's not asking for anything he doesn't do for me frequently and with great enthusiasm. The difference is that he knows what's he's doing. He's good at it—skilled and confident. He's the exact opposite of me.

"_Do _you want to?"

"In theory." And I do. I want to do anything that would make him feel good—provided that I don't humiliate myself in the process.

"But in practice?"

"I don't want to suck at it."

"I'm not asking you to suck_ at_ it, just _on_ it"

I know he's trying to be funny, but I can't find it in myself to laugh. "I meant that I won't be any good, that you won't enjoy it."

"If you're involved, I'll enjoy it."

"Okay."

I nudge him onto his back; he raises his hips and slides his pajama pants off. He's already hard.

"Seriously?" I ask, gesturing to his boner.

"You look beautiful tonight," he says, shrugging. "And talking about you sucking me off was hot."

I'm self-conscious as I wrap my hand around him, though I don't know why. It's not as if I haven't touched him like this before. I focus on the familiarity of his skin—its heat, its smoothness. His hips are moving and his breathing is heavy, and I think maybe I can pull this off...that I can suck it off and therefore get him off. Feeling more confident, I lower my lips to the tip. I kiss it, then I tongue it, and if the sounds coming from him are indication, I'm not doing too badly.

"I'm close," he says. "In case you don't want to...oh god."

I bring him in deeper and swallow quickly, and as he comes upon a midnight clear, he says something that sounds an awful lot like 'I love you'. I'm grateful my mouth is otherwise occupied because it prevents me from saying it back—which would be bad if he didn't mean it or if he actually said something else. It would be the ultimate awkward moment there'd be no coming back from.

Later we climb into bed together, and he wraps his arms around me.

"Are you missing home?" he asks.

I shake my head. I don't tell him I'm more at home here than I ever felt with my parents.

"I know this has to be strange for you."

I pull back and look at his face. "This is the best Christmas I've ever had. Really."

And it is. I don't think this night could possibly get better. Then he kisses me and proves me wrong.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 23, 2009**

There's a beep, then nothing. When I remain silent, the call disconnects on its own. I stare at my phone, thinking maybe I'm imagining this, that it can't be real. One way or the other, I need to know. I press the Send button and close my eyes, expecting to hear the three shrill tones that always precede error messages.

Except they never come. Instead, I hear_ him_—the way he sounded _then_—telling me he loves me, that he needs me, that doesn't think he'll ever stop. Though his words aren't all that different from the ones he spoke last night at his apartment, it feels as if they are. And I'm sure in a way I haven't been since I was eighteen and possessed an unwavering belief in forever and a heart that had never known hurt. The greeting on his voicemail changes everything.

I drop my phone onto the bed and go to find Edward. He's in the living-room sofa with Alice, apparently still in the midst of the conversation I'd excused myself from so I could put on clean clothes. I take his hand and give it a tug.

"I need to borrow your brother." I say, leading him down the hall to the guest room. "I'll bring him back; I promise."

"No worries," she calls from the living room. "Keep him as long as you want."

I close the door behind us.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

For the first time in a decade, everything is right.

"I was," I say.

"I don't understand."

"I was wrong about you...about us. I love you. I want to do this."

"Do what?"

I throw myself into his arms with such force, he's propelled against the door.

Hugging him tightly I whisper into his ear, "I'm sorry. And I'll never leave you again."

* * *

**_May your eggnog be spiked and your holiday magical.  
_**


	18. Tastevin

I don't own _Twilight. _

Thanks to books and LJ Summers. Their input is just amazing.

Thanks to Uggy for her write-up of _Fall to Ruin One Day_ for the Twilight Enablers.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Tastevin**

_**

* * *

**_

**December 31, 1995**

Edward hasn't told me exactly what our New Year's Eve agenda is, except that I'm supposed to wear a dress. I'd brought exactly one dress to college with me—a short, black, baby-doll thing with puffy sleeves. I throw it on over thick black tights and my Docs, the way I always wear it. My one concession to the fact it's a special occasion is my lipstick. It's Revlon ColorStay and more money than I like to spend, but the shade is called Raisin and sets off my skin tone nicely. It makes me feel sophisticated—almost like a grown-up—which is much better than how I usually feel. When I emerge from the bathroom, I'm pleased with how I look.

Then I see Edward. What he's wearing isn't exactly a suit, but it's not a tuxedo, either. I'm not sure how to describe it, except that it's dressier than business attire but not like what guys wear to the prom. It looks amazing on him, and all I can think is how much I want to rip it off him. He smiles when he sees me, then he surveys my outfit. Though his face betrays nothing and he doesn't speak, it's obvious he doesn't like it. I'm just not sure what to do about it, except go on the defensive.

"You said to wear a dress and I did, even though I feel ridiculous. This is the only dress I have; please don't make fun of me."

"It's not the dress, it's...well...you're wearing Doc Martens."

"I usually do."

"Even with dresses?"

"With everything," I admit, shrugging.

"Okay." He draws out the second syllable, making it sound more like a question. Then he sighs, and I know something is wrong.

"What?"

"I'm not sure how your pseudo-goth attire works with the dress code."

"Dress code? I thought we were going out to eat."

"We are."

It's one of _those_ moments, in which he knows something I don't but feel as if I should. When this has happened before, we'd been doing physical stuff and the ensuing awkwardness I'd felt came largely from my unwillingness to admit my genuine fear of breaking his boy bits and landing him in the emergency room. This is different. I feel deficient—not because of my age or lack of experience, but because he's been exposed to things that I haven't and likely never will. It makes me feel plebeian, and I don't care for it one bit.

I smack my lips and fold my arms across my chest. "What the hell kind of restaurant has a dress code?"

"The four-star kind."

Until now I wasn't aware restaurants _had_ stars, but I feel ghetto enough as it is, so I nod and my fake my I-knew-that look. The problem is that I can't successfully fake anything.

"It's okay," he says, pulling me into his arms. "I should have explained this to you in better detail. Sometimes, I forget this is new to you."

I don't think he means to sound patronizing but he does, and it infuriates me. I push him away—not only do I not want him to touch me, I don't want to be anywhere near him.

"It may surprise you to hear this, but Forks isn't all trailer parks and elk hunting. There are shops and businesses—some of which even serve food."

"I never meant to imply otherwise."

"Then why are you acting as if this is the first time in my life I've gone out to eat?"

His silence tells me he's censoring himself, and I wish he wouldn't. Good or bad, I want to know what he's thinking and feeling—that will tell me who he is. Otherwise, I'll never know if I really love him, though not because I question the validity of my emotions. I just wonder if the boy to whom they're directed even exists.

He looks at me and when he speaks, his demeanor is gentle. "By your own admission you've never experienced fine dining. That's why I made the reservations—because given your love of food and cooking, I think you'll enjoy it. But I know you, and you won't if you feel self-conscious. I'm concerned that you will."

"You said it was jacket-required, right? I think I'll be fine. I mean, I have a jacket to wear over this."

He laughs and though I'm not sure what he finds so funny, I laugh, too. It's preferable to the alternative, and I don't want him to see me cry.

**-o-O-o-**

The restaurant is the kind of place I've seen in movies, that I thought didn't exist in real life. Who am I kidding? In _my_ real life, places like this don't exist. Edward holds my hand as we're led to our table, and as we wind our way through the dining room, I see little black dresses and lots of diamonds, but mine are the only Docs in the place. I realize he was right—I am underdressed. Though no one seems to notice let alone care, it feeds my unease and reinforces the fact that Edward and I come from different worlds. I think of ski-weekend ex-girlfriend. She probably wore diamonds, not Docs. I've never felt inadequate before and I don't want to, but I do. I can't help it.

The table at which we're seated is candlelit. It's romantic, and we're back in our bubble where there's just us and nothing else matters. His smile is beautiful, and I'm able to relax. Then I look at the menu, and I think I'm going to die. There are no prices on individual dishes, just one at the top of the menu next to the words _prix fixe_. The word expensive seems inadequate, but the phrase _fucking insane _comes to mind.

"I can't afford this," I say.

"I invited you; this is on me."

"But you couldn't have known..."

"I've been here before," he explains. "You should try the risotto. I think you'll enjoy it."

I tell myself this isn't a big deal, that I knew he had money. Except it is kind of a big deal, and I had no idea he had this much money. I don't have time to process this, though. When I look up, a man with a funny silver necklace is standing beside our table.

"May I have a diet coke, please?" I ask.

"I'll let your waiter know," he says. "Do you have any questions about the wine list?"

After much discussion, Edward orders a bottle.

"If that wasn't our waiter, who was it?" I ask when we're alone.

"The sommelier."

"Okay," I say, gesturing for him to continue.

"He's the wine expert. Most fine restaurants have one on staff. These guys are amazing—you tell them what you're ordering, and they make suggestions that will enhance your meal."

"These _guys_?"

His expression doesn't change when he nods, and it's clear he has no idea why I would take issue with his choice of words.

"Isn't that kind of sexist?" I ask. "I mean, I'm sure there are female some of...whatever you said they were called."

"Sommeliers. And you're right; there probably are. I've just never encountered one."

I want to remind him that even if he has been here before he can't possibly frequent these sorts of restaurants regularly enough for his statement to have any validity, but then I realize I don't know for sure that he doesn't. When it comes to his life outside of me, I don't know much of anything.

But I want to—I'm just not sure how to go about asking.

After the waiter takes our food orders, the sommelier returns and presents Edward with a bottle.

Edward surveys the label, nodding. "Thank you."

With a grace and efficiency I've never encountered, the sommelier opens the bottle and pours less than a mouthful into a glass, swishes it around a bit, then takes a sip.

"Oh, sure, help yourself," I say.

He smiles; it's Edward who appears mortified.

"No, seriously. Why did you do that?" I ask.

"There are so many factors that can affect the quality of a bottle of wine. I wouldn't serve it without being certain it tastes the way it was intended."

"So you've tasted every bottle you offer?"

"Yes." He pours a glass and places it in front of me.

"Do you ever get drunk at work?"

He laughs. "You'll enjoy this. Your companion made an excellent choice."

I look at Edward. If he was annoyed with me before, he doesn't appear to be now.

"I'm sorry I'm bothering you," I say to the sommelier. "This is all new to me, and it's fascinating."

"You aren't," he says, flashing me a smile as he pours a glass for Edward. "I'm here to answer questions. Let me know if I can be of any further assistance. Enjoy."

He hurries away to assist other patrons, and I turn to Edward.

Despite the way the evening began, I do.

**-o-O-o-**

Half an hour before midnight, we're back at his apartment. I lean against the wall in the hallway as he unlocks his front door.

"Problems standing?" he asks, smiling.

"No." I straighten my posture and for a second, I'm able to remain upright. It's when I try to walk through the door that I trip over my own feet.

"Careful there." With his arms around me, he walks me inside his apartment and over to his bed. "Probably the safest place for you right now."

"I'm not sleepy." I shrug out of my coat and hand it to him.

After hanging it in the closet beside his own, he kneels in front of me and starts unlacing my boots. "Who said anything about sleep?"

He's close enough for me to lick and I want to more than anything, but I don't because I'm still weird about it. It doesn't feel as if he's mine to touch.

"You're yummy," I tell him.

"Now this sounds familiar."

"You probably hear it all the time."

"Only from you when you're drunk," he says, rubbing my feet through my thick, black tights.

"Don't. They probably smell like ass."

"They smell like feet, and I don't mind."

"You drank twice as much as I did. Why aren't you trashed?"

"What makes you think I'm not?"

"You don't seem it. You're just as graceful and polished as always." Realizing what I said, I cover my face with my hands. "God, I'm pathetic."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because you make me nervous—like, really nervous—and I feel like an enormous douchebag when I'm nervous. I don't want you to think of me like a tool who says dumb things all the time because when I'm not around you, I usually don't. And you're so...not like me. And you make me want stuff I've never wanted, that I'm not even sure I understand."

"Such as?"

He smiles, and my eyes go right to his lips. All I can think about is how it feels when that mouth does dirty things to me.

"I want to be inside you," I say.

He laughs. "I don't think that's physically possible."

"Not like that...I mean...you're always inside me, even when we're not...you know...because I love you. I love you so much. I want more than anything for you to love me like that, the way I love you."

"I already do."

"Huh?"

"I love you, Bella. I'm not always good at showing it and it's hard for me to say, but I hope you believe me."

I collapse backwards onto the bed, groaning. "This sucks."

"That's not the reaction I was hoping for-"

"It's the wine, right? It has to be the wine. I'm hallucinating."

"Wine won't make you hallucinate."

"That's what I thought. But I also thought you told me you loved me, and there's no way that was real."

"Ah, but it was."

"I don't believe you! In fact, I bet when I wake up tomorrow I won't remember any of this happened."

"In that case, I'll have to remind you. Meanwhile..." He runs his hands up the insides of my legs under my dress. "Does this feel real?"

"Yes," I say, sighing.

"What about this?"

He hooks his thumbs inside the waistband of my tights and tugs gently. I raise my hips and he pulls my tights down my legs, slowly dragging his fingertips along my newly-exposed skin. I think he's going to touch me _there,_ but he doesn't. He doesn't touch me at all. I bring my legs together, expecting to catch him between them, but he's not there. I prop myself up on my elbows to see where he went; I don't see him, but the bathroom door is closed.

If this is real, that means he loves me. Loving me is nice, and it makes me want to do something nice for him. I mentally evaluate various possibilities, but the fact I doubt I could walk limits me. Then I remember how much he seems to like getting me naked, and that's something easily enough accomplished. I wrestle myself out of my dress and underwear, tossing them across the apartment. Stretched out on Edward's bed wearing absolutely nothing, I feel adult and empowered, maybe even sexy. Then I remember I have no boobs. I grab a pillow from the head of the bed and hold it in front of my body.

He emerges from the bathroom clad only in his boxers, but he doesn't look toward the bed. Instead, he gets a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator and pops the cork.

A-cups be damned! He claims he likes them despite their humility. I toss the pillow aside and lie on my side, waiting for him to see me.

"Five minutes to midnight," he says, pouring us each a glass. "Think you can make it? I mean, you're even worse off than I am, and I'm in pretty poor..." He stops talking when he sees me on the bed. "Wow."

"Happy New Year."

The champagne is abandoned on the counter. We don't toast at midnight; we're otherwise occupied.

1996 is going to be a good year.

**-o-O-o**-

**November 23, 2009**

My feet no longer touch the floor, but I don't worry about falling. Even if Edward were to let go of me, I wouldn't hit the ground. I couldn't; the pull I feel toward Edward is far stronger than gravity. With my legs wrapped around his waist, he presses me against the guestroom door. My hands pull at his hair as my tongue enters his mouth. When he pushes his hips into me, he's as hard as the wood behind my back. It's for me, it's because of me, and though it's attached to his body, I know without a doubt it belongs to me. He belongs to me. It seems as if he always has. The only thing left for me to do is to give myself back to him.

"I want you, Edward. I want forever."

He tightens his hold on me and carries me to the bed. Soon, he's bare-chested and I'm down to my bra and my jeans. His hands are in my hair and he's kissing me, and for the first time of my life, I'm not afraid. I'm standing on the cusp of losing myself forever, and I don't care because he's lost himself, too. I don't need me as long as there's an us. With his hands still in my hair, he nudges my head back slightly and looks in my eyes.

"What changed?"

"Everything. Nothing. I'm not even sure." I shrug.

"But you meant what you said?"

"Yes."

"I'm confused. One moment I'm listening to Alice's Christmas plans and the next thing I'm here."

"You didn't seem to mind."

"Oh, I don't. But I would like to understand what brought us here. As of a few hours ago, you were still ambivalent."

He has to know how much that voicemail would mean to me. When I left him ten years ago, it was rare for him to hold my hand in public. But for him to record that outgoing voicemail message on his cellphone and leave it there all this time for anyone to hear—that kind of gesture makes nothing else matter.

"I called you just now, but you didn't answer."

"I must not have heard you over Alice's jingle-hell rock."

"I meant your phone."

"That I should have felt—it's on vibrate in my pocket. I'm sorry if you thought I was ignoring you."

"I didn't. Anyway, it went directly to voicemail."

"Are you sure you dialed the right number?"

"Yes. There was a message for me..."

"Oh," he says, nodding. "I can't believe you finally heard it. I kept that number active in case you called me, but I use a different number now. I'm not even sure where the phone attached to the number you called is—it's this ridiculously heavy thing that looks like a brick. I kept it active for you...just in case. I used to check for messages on it daily, sometimes even more than that. Then I set it up so any messages left on it would show up on my BlackBerry." He cups my face in his hands and strokes my cheeks with his thumbs. "That phone line was my only chance. I had things I needed to tell you, and that was the only way I knew how. I'd given up thinking you'd ever hear it."

"You have another phone number?"

"Of course. I'd don't care who from my personal life hears that message, but from a political standpoint–"

"I should have known." I close my eyes, sighing. "I can't believe I thought..." I shake my head. "Never mind."

It's ridiculous for me to feel disappointed, but I can't help it. His message proves that he loves me. If only love were enough. More than that, I need him to accept me as I am. I'm not entirely sure he does.

"We should get back to Alice," I say. "She's probably been waiting forever. We're being horribly rude."

"You're probably right." He picks up his shirt and puts his arms through the sleeves. "You haven't changed your mind about us, have you?"

I almost say yes. Then I see his eyes, and I just can't. I think about it as I pull my sweater over my head. He's a United States Senator. Of course he wouldn't have an outgoing message like that for everyone to hear. It's enough that he left it there for all those years just for me. It's more than enough.

"No," I tell him, smoothing my sweater over my hips. "I love you too much."


	19. Vintage

I don't own _Twilight_.

Thanks to books and LJSummers.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Vintage**

* * *

**March 12, 1996**

Spring Break is aptly named. Though my family was broken long before now, it doesn't become real until I visit my dad. It may be the town in which I grew up, but it doesn't feel like home. Despite how much he'd claimed he missed me, that he wanted me to come home, he tiptoes around me. I know he's trying, but I think maybe that's the problem—he's trying too hard.

When we arrive at the house he shares with his girlfriend, she meets us at the door.

"Hello, Mrs. Clearwater." I force a smile. "Thank you for having me."

"We're family, Izzy. Now that I'm marrying your father, don't you think you should call me Sue?"

My eyes fill up with tears. We were in the car for hours. How could he not have told me this then?

I turn to my dad and whisper, "I thought it 'wasn't like that'."

"It wasn't at first, but it is now."

I struggle to keep my face neutral. "Clearly."

I don't have the money to fly home with any regularity; Dad's marital status _shouldn't_ affect my life much, but it does. It makes me wonder how much of my parents' relationship was real and how I could have bought into something that was obviously an act. I understand why Edward can't stomach being in the same room as his father; at the moment, I'd rather be anywhere but with mine.

They're both looking at me, waiting for me to respond. The problem is that I don't know what to say. I mean, I know what I'm _supposed_ to say from an etiquette standpoint. At this very moment, I can hear my mother quoting Emily Post. It's insulting to congratulate a bride-to-be because it implies she needed luck to secure a husband. Though in this instance she needed something, it was more than likely deceit and manipulation.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Clearwater. That's really..." I struggle for something polite to say but come up empty. "...um...something."

"Let me show you where you'll be sleeping," my dad says.

"Great!" Some time to myself is exactly what I need right now.

"You don't mind crashing on Leah's floor, do you?" she asks. "It's only for a few days. Your father started converting the attic into a bedroom for you last summer, but with all the over time he's been putting in at the station, it's not finished yet."

"How would you have known I'd need a room here last summer?" I ask, looking at my father. "You were still living with mom and me."

When he doesn't respond, I look at Mrs. Clearwater. She's looking down, fumbling with her watch strap.

I take a deep breath and count to ten. "Crashing on Leah's floor is fine. Thank you for your hospitality."

I could get through anything for a few days. Summer is another matter altogether.

**-o-O-o-**

When the rest of the house is asleep, I sneak downstairs to call Edward. He answers just when I'm about to hang up; his speech is slurred and his voice hoarse. It makes me feel even shittier than I did before.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to wake you. I should know better than to call you this late. I forgot about the time difference, and I know you don't like to be disturbed during the week–"

"Call me whenever you want."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Thanks...I just..." This time, I can't stop myself from crying. "Everything's different. He's different. They're getting married and..." My voice breaks. "I feel selfish for being upset. It's not that I don't want him to be happy; I do. I just hate that it comes at my mother's expense. He was planning to leave her months before he actually did...he started converting the attic into a room for me here last summer. And though they didn't seem all that happy, they were still married. I mean, they were still.._.__you know_..."

"You don't know that."

"Oh, but I do. Emptying the upstairs trash was one of my chores, and well..." I shake my head, wishing my brain erased as easily as my old Etch-a-Sketch. "Let's just say some of the stuff I'd see in there was traumatic. I mean, I found out the hard way there are things other than chocolate coins that come in gold foil wrappers."

"Got it," he says. "Though..."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"No, tell me."

"I'm not trying to upset you, but you don't know for sure your dad was using those with your mother."

He's right, but it doesn't make me feel any better.

"I'm not sure which scenario would piss me off more. I mean, I know my mom isn't easy to live with, but I can't see how she deserved this..."

"It's okay."

"What he did is so _not _okay–"

"I agree with you. I meant that everything will_ be_ okay. You moved out. Going forward, your parents can only affect you as much as you let them."

"Until the summer," I remind him. "Then I have no other option. My mom is going on some missionary thing, so I can't stay with her in Arizona. I'll be back on my stepsister-to-be's floor, which is just peachy considering how nice she was to me when we were in high school. I _hate_ her. Leah—that's her name—she was the one who snapped my bra across my back in ninth-grade-gym class."

He yawns. "Don't girls do things like that all time? I mean, Alice has similar stories."

"I bet Alice never had shoulder pads fall out of her gym shirt!"

"Your gym uniform had shoulder pads?"

"No. My _bra_ did."

"On the straps?"

"No, shoved inside the cups."

"I'm sorry," he says, laughing.

"It isn't funny."

He doesn't stop laughing.

"It was one of the most humiliating moments of my life," I whine. "I can just imagine what she'll do now that we're under the same roof. She could...like...shave my eyebrows while I sleep or replace the contents of my shampoo bottle with Nair. How would you feel if I came back from summer recess bald?"

"If you're that worried about it, stay here."

"I can't afford it. I have school expenses; I won't earn enough money to pay rent, too."

"Who said anything about rent? I like having you around and unlike your family, I'd never ask you to sleep on the floor."

I think of what it would be like to spend the summer with Edward and see us laughing, cooking, and making love. It's the kind of thing I dream about—that it could be real just doesn't seem possible.

"Do you really want me to stay with you?"

"Did you really stuff your bra with shoulder pads?" His voice isn't at all teasing. If anything, he seems genuinely curious.

"Answering questions with questions is an avoidance tactic," I remind him.

"Oh, I agree."

I'm blushing even though he's on the other side of the country. Damn him.

"Yes," I admit.

"Me, too."

"You've stuffed your bra?"

"No," he says, laughing. "My experience with lingerie is limited. I've been known to remove it, and occasionally trip over it on the way the bathroom in the morning."

"Ha ha," I mutter dryly.

The other end is quiet, and I wonder if maybe the call disconnected somehow. When he finally does speak, his voice is completely serious.

"I want you here with me."

I don't have to think about my answer. "Yes."

Leah's floor may be hard and drafty, but I don't notice. I spend the night feeling warm and fuzzy.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 23, 2009**

Alice gives me The Look when Edward and I re-emerge from the guestroom, but she doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to; he beats her to it.

"Do you mind if I crash here for the next few days?" he asks. "I won't get in the way; I figure I'll stay in the guestroom with Isabella."

Alice's narrowed eyes dart from me to Edward, then back again. Without uttering a word, she takes me by the hand and pulls me into the guestroom, shutting the door behind us.

"Spill it, Izzy."

"I don't know anything about what just happened out there! You'll have to ask him–"

"What just happened in here?" She gestures to the bed behind me.

"Noth–" I stop, realizing that's not exactly true. "Not _much_."

"Yesterday, you weren't even speaking to him."

"I know, right?" I throw myself on the bed and clutch a pillow to my stomach. "I'm not even sure how it happened. One minute I'm cooking and, the next thing I know, Edward's there and I'm crying. Then he puts his arms around me and I can feel him and smell him; he feels just like I remember and smells just like I remember. It makes me cry harder, so he holds me tighter and brings me to his place. Soon he's crying, too, and swearing up and down he'll never leave me again if I give him this week, that he knows he can prove to me he's changed." I groan, hiding my face behind the pillow. "I sound like I'm insane_._"

"No. You sound like you're in love."

"I never stopped."

"I know." The mattress dips as she sits on the edge of the bed. "Neither did he."

"When I was in here getting dressed, I called him. He'd told me on the plane he kept the same phone number all these years, just in case I called him. I was sure he was lying. Then I heard him on the voicemail greeting and I knew it had to have been recorded a long time ago based on how he sounded. And for a moment, I thought...I don't know what I thought."

"Come on. You know _exactly_ what you thought."

"If I tell you, you'll smack me for being an idiot."

"I may smack you anyway for pulling my dick."

"I thought it was his only phone, and then when he explained he had another number in addition to it–"

"Oh my god, Izzy. Seriously?"

"I know, right? I know it was stupid to think that, it's just...that's what I needed—for him to make that kind of huge gesture that says not only is he capable of genuine emotion, but he feels it for me. Otherwise, I'm just setting myself up for more of the same."

She sighs, but doesn't say anything. I'm about to ask her if she hates me when she pummels my shoulder.

"Ouch!" I hold up the pillow in defense. "Don't hit me; I warned you it was idiotic."

"Move over. There are a lot of things I need to tell you, and it could take a while. I want to get comfortable."

I wiggle away from the center of the bed to make room for her.

"This feels like college," she says, stretching out beside me.

"The whole talking-about-boys-in-bed thing?"

"No, the you-being-a-dumbass thing."

"You know how he was, Alice."

"I do—and unlike you, I always have. He's my brother and though I love him to death, I'm not oblivious to his faults."

"Believe me, neither am I."

"Not anymore." She fluffs a pillow then rests her head on top of it. When she speaks again, she's staring straight up at the ceiling. "June 19, 2000."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"That's when Edward taped that message for you. He thought that if you were ever going to call him, you'd do it for his birthday."

I close my eyes, sighing. "I nearly did. I dialed half his number then hung up."

"Yeah. What you don't get is that everyone else _did_. Back then, that _was_ his only phone. Our family, his coworkers—they all heard that message. And he caught hell for it. His friends thought he was pathetic; Dad thought he lost his mind. Anyway, Edward only got the number he has now when he moved back to Illinois to take a job with the state legislature. Izzy..." She swallows hard, but she still doesn't look at me. "I know what he did to you. I saw it, remember? But I also saw what losing you did to him."

"Why is he on anxiety meds?"

She turns her head sharply to look at me. "He's on anxiety meds?"

"I don't know if he _takes_ them or not, but he has recent prescriptions in his medicine cabinet."

Her eyes narrow slightly; I know what she's thinking.

"So I went snooping around last night," I admit. "Not all of us are psychic, you know, some of us are forced to gather information the old-school way."

She looks back at the ceiling. "I didn't know about that."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"I know it was stupid of me to think that would be his only phone, and I'm fully aware my initial reaction was fucking naïve and a bit self-centered."

Alice snorts. "Only a bit?"

"Maybe a lot. In my defense, that's all it was—an initial reaction. It didn't last; I know it had far more to do with who Edward and I were then than who we are now."

"What should I tell him?" she asks. "Are you okay with him staying here all week? Because if you're not, I'll tell him no. He promised me he'd stay away if he made you uncomfortable."

"I want him here," I say. Then it occurs to me that she may not. "I mean, as long as it's okay with you. You're who I came here to see."

"Are you kidding?" She throws her arms around me, hugging me tightly. "I get to have my brother and my sister under the same roof again. Nothing would make me happier."

**-o-O-o-**

I poke my head into the living room on my way to the kitchen. Edward is sitting on the sofa typing away on his BlackBerry.

"You might want to go pack a bag," I tell him. "I'll have dinner ready by the time you get back."

He jumps to his feet and crosses the room, stopping when he's in front me. "Are you sure?"

I nod, smiling.

"Don't get too excited," Alice calls from behind me. "I'm making you crash on the living-room floor. I don't want to have to burn the sheets and mattresses after you leave."

"That's fine, Baby Sis. Don't worry about me. I mean, I may not be able to fall asleep unless I'm naked, and though the open floor-plan would bother some people, I don't mind in the slightest. We're all family here."

"Ew...yuck!" Alice whines, wrinkling her nose. "Fine, crash with Izzy. But if I hear the slightest mattress squeak from the guestroom, you owe me a new set of Heavenly sheets. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go throw up now."

She hurries to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Edward looks at me, smiling.

"I see through your lies, Senator Cullen."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"Pajama-induced insomnia? That's ridiculous even for you."

"How would you know? Your information is somewhat outdated."

"I'm may drink wine for a living, but I haven't killed so many brain cells that I've lost my short-term memory."

"What are you talking about?" he asks, laughing. "I haven't slept in front of you since the Clinton administration."

"You did last night—and you were wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants."

"See, that's where you've gotten your facts wrong. I might have shared a bed with you last night, but I didn't actually sleep. I couldn't; I was wearing clothes. And on that note, I need to go pack a bag that will _not _include pajamas." He turns on his heel and strolls toward the door, stopping to retrieve his jacket from the coat rack in the hall.

I'm still laughing when he closes the door behind him. As far as I can tell, I win either way.

* * *

**Thanks so much for reading and for all of your thoughtful comments. **


	20. Wine Label

I don't own _Twilight. _

Thanks to books and L.J. Summers. _  
_

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

**Wine Label**

**

* * *

**

**March 18, 1996**

Edward is the first person I see when I step off the jetway into the terminal. He's wearing jeans and an untucked flannel shirt. His hair is tousled and it's clear he skipped shaving this morning. I think he's the most beautiful thing ever, and I realize I've never missed anyone more than I missed him over the past two weeks. Not caring that he isn't big on public displays of affection, I throw myself into his arms.

He clears his throat; I step away from him.

"Sorry," I say. "I know you don't like it when I do that. I'm just so excited to see you."

"It's okay. I missed you, too." He raises his arm and coughs into his elbow.

"Are you sick?"

"Just a bit of a cold," he says. "It's not a big deal."

I hug him again; I can't help it. When he squeezes me against him, I know he wasn't embarrassed by me earlier. I feel awful for being relieved to hear he's sick, but it's preferable to thinking he doesn't want people to know we're a couple.

"What?" he asks, laughing.

"I really missed you."

"I missed you, too. Now let's get you home."

"Home?"

"I knew your mother wouldn't be happy about you staying with me this summer, but she didn't change your mind, did she?"

"No!"

At this point, I doubt anyone could change my mind about Edward. Just when I think I couldn't possibly love him more, something happens and I do.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 23, 2009**

Despite the fact I'd packed pajamas, I grab one of Edward's undershirts to wear to bed. When I return to the guestroom after changing, he's sitting on the edge of the bed, clad in nothing but a pair of gray boxer briefs and sporting a semi.

"I thought you could only sleep if you were naked."

"You thought right."

I lower my gaze to his crotch. It lingers on his almost-ready-to-go cock before returning to his face.

"I'm also awake. Funny how that works."

My eyes narrow slightly. "What are you planning to do? Wait until I'm asleep then drop trou?"

"That was the plan, yes. Unless you'd rather I get naked now."

"No good could come from that."

"No, but _you_ could."

I smile. I can't help it.

"Did you just lick your lips?" he asks.

"What? No." I get into bed and lie on top of the covers. "At least, not consciously."

Laughing, he stretches out beside me. When he pulls me into his arms, I relax against him. It's effortless and feels almost like coming home.

"Do you remember our first Thanksgiving together?" I ask.

"Of course. I got to taste your turkey and your clam for the very first time. Both were delicious, by the way."

"I've never made clams for you."

He gives me his dirty smile, and I realize what he meant.

"Oh." I close my eyes and breathe in his scent; it's the same now as it was then. I think about this weekend fourteen years ago, how patient he was with me, the thrill of realizing he liked me the way I liked him, how I gave him my body knowing I wasn't in love with him but also knowing I would be, how he told me that was something he'd never do with someone he didn't care about. Then I realize he's never talked about his first time, and I'm overcome with curiosity.

"What was it like for you?" I ask.

"What?"

"The first time you had sex."

He stiffens in my arms.

"Don't you dare get weird on me." I smack his chest lightly, angling my head so I can see his face. "It's a fair question. I mean—it's not as if you don't know all about mine."

"I'm not disputing the validity of your request; I'm just a bit surprised by your word choice."

"What about it?"

"You know," he says, laughing. "You used to have a mile-long list of euphemisms. I never understood how you could drop f-bombs left and right, but you couldn't bring yourself to say the word 'sex'."

"You're trying to distract me so you don't have to answer." I brush my thumb across his cheek, then rest my hand against the side of his neck. "It won't work. I'm immune to your techniques."

"You aren't immune to _anything_ when it comes to me." He lowers his lips to my throat. "And I can prove it."

"How do you propose to do that?"

He sucks my flesh into his mouth then releases it, teasing my now-wet skin with his breath as he exhales. It feels good, but I'm hardly putty in his hands.

"Fourteen years ago, that _might_ have bought you ten minutes."

"I'm just getting started." He drags his tongue across my neck. "Now spread your legs."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You aren't playing fair."

"I never do." His hands creep up underneath my t-shirt, brushing my skin with his fingertips.

It's different and familiar at the same time. Ridiculous though it may be, I feel like I'm eighteen again—wanting him but fearing his seemingly inevitable rejection in equal parts. Back then I only stood to lose my virginity; there's far more at stake now.

"I don't want to have sex with you."

He moves his hand out from under my shirt and rests it against my hip. "Uh...okay."

"That didn't come out right. I mean, obviously I want to have sex with you. I _always_ want to have sex with you. But I'd kind of like our second first time to be more special than me trying not to make any noises that would gross out your sister, and there's so much we haven't discussed..."

"I know, and I agree on both points—especially the first one." His fingers trace circles on my hip through my underwear. "I don't want you to hold anything back."

"I won't be able to. I never could—you're too good. Speaking of your bedroom skills..." I nudge him away and look at his face. "I've always wondered how you got them."

"Why?"

"They're part of what makes you_ you_. Besides, you said you'd tell me your sexual history..."

"I was talking about the past ten years."

"And I want to hear about that, too." I close my eyes, sighing. "It would be easier for me to take if you started at the beginning and worked up to it. I don't think you understand how intimidating you can be."

"That's just because of my job."

"No, it's because of who you are. I mean, when we met, you were twenty-two. If you had doubts about anything, it didn't show. Even then, you had polish and finesse—unnatural grace. I know you weren't born that way; Alice has told me as much. You _had _to have had some awkward moments..."

"Sure, who hasn't?"

"Then tell me about them; I promise not to laugh at you."

"That's not it."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

"Because I'm not proud of it." He rolls onto his back, sighing. "It was right after my mother died, and I found out I had a half-brother. I'm sure I told you about him..."

"Just that he exists and not to tell Alice."

"My mother mentioned him in her will. Apparently, she found out about him a few weeks before she died. I confronted my father about his infidelity, and he laughed. Said it was obvious I was still a virgin, otherwise I'd understand the power of lust and sex. I was a mess when I went back to school. A few weeks later, I was at a party and this girl who was a senior invited me back to her room.

"I knew I was using her, but I didn't care. My mother was gone, and I thought if I had sex I'd understand my father and therefore stop hating him. Instead I only hated myself."

As grateful as I am he's opening up to me, I feel like a shit. All these years, I'd been imagining awkward fumbling in the back of a car or maybe that he came after two pumps—normal teenage embarrassment. I never thought it would be anything like this, that he kept it to himself because he hates what he did. It makes me want to touch him—not the polished facade he shows the world—but the fear he hides. To be the water he drinks and the air he breathes. To soothe whatever other pain he'll never let me see.

I reach for his hand and thread his fingers through mine. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Anyway, that was my first time. After that was my college girlfriend, whom you know about, and then there was you."

"And after me?"

"For a while, there was no one. It took me a long time to accept you weren't coming back. Then I focused on my career, and I didn't have time for relationships. It's tricky anyway. Campaigns can be so dirty, and the last thing I needed was ex-girlfriends talking to the tabloids as if they were women scorned. At the same time, I'm a guy. I needed some kind of sexual release. You know how you said you and your roommate were friends-with-benefits?"

I nodded.

"I've made similar arrangements over the years with women I knew would never talk—they had as much if not more to lose than I did."

"Other politicians?" I ask.

"Sometimes. Sometimes their wives."

"Seriously?"

He shrugs. "I told you I wasn't proud of myself."

"But you hate infidelity...at least, you always did."

"I still do. This is why I've never been unfaithful."

"Maybe not technically, but you've been a party to it."

"And if it wasn't me, it would have been someone else."

"When did you become so fatalistic?"

"When the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with walked out on me on Christmas Day!" His chest rises and falls as he fills his lungs with air then exhales in a gush, shaking his head. "Sorry. I didn't mean–"

"It's okay. I deserved it." The tears start to come; I'm unable to stop them. I hate what I did to him even more than I hate what he did to me. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...I mean I wouldn't..." My voice breaks. "I didn't think you loved me."

"How could you think that?" He turns onto his side, cupping my face in his hands. "I told you–"

"You did. And I thought you loved the idea of me—that I was young and malleable and worshiped you. I didn't think you loved _me._ Hell, you wouldn't even call me by my name."

He wraps his arms around me and holds me.

"Tighter," I say.

He complies, then presses his lips against the top of my head.

"I love you, Izzy."

* * *

**Thanks so much for reading.**


	21. Beaujolais Nouveau

I don't own _Twilight_.

Huge thanks to Bookishqua and LJ Summers for talking me off the cliff. And to Detochkina, whose tweets inspired part of this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

**Beaujolais Nouveau**

* * *

**June 18, 1996**

"Nothing in the world matters less to me than my father's opinion."

I don't believe him for a second—if that was true, he wouldn't insist on buying me "something suitable" to wear to his birthday dinner. I reach for a black sheath dress. It seems appropriate enough. I mean, it's what every female in the restaurant was wearing on New Year's Eve. I remember those women—their shiny straight hair, their full faces of understated make-up, their glittering diamonds—none of that is me. Feeling like a fraud, I return the dress to the rack. The metal part of the hanger screeches as it drags across the display fixture. It's an everyday noise made by an everyday object, but in the contrived refinement of the boutique, it sounds as out of place as I feel.

I flatten my palms against my cheeks, hoping my embarrassment won't show. It's a wasted effort. When I look at Edward, my face is on fire.

"If neither of us cares what your dad thinks of me, why do I need a dress?"

"Because you _will _care; you just don't realize it."

What he's saying seems so wrong. By now he should realize I care about _him _and not much else.

"I won't," I insist.

"This is something small I can do for you." Sighing, he rubs his temples with his fingertips. "Would you please let me?"

There's a slight desperation to his voice; I've never heard anything like it. It makes me wonder what this is really about.

"Do you honestly believe your father will think less of you if I wear something I already have?"

"No, but you'll think less of yourself."

I want to tell him his father is not a risk to my self-esteem. If anyone is making me think less of myself, it's Edward. I want to, but I don't. If I do, we'll argue and that would create a scene. So I don't say anything; I don't want to call attention to myself. Wearing cut-off jeans and Docs while surrounded by a sea of linen shifts and silk slip dresses, I feel conspicuous enough as it is. Instead, I focus on the electric-blue sheath in front of me and tried to talk myself into trying it on. It's not that I dislike it; it's actually very pretty. If I saw it on Alice I'd tell her she looked beautiful, but it's not something I'd ever choose for myself—mainly because it isn't black, denim, or flannel.

Sighing, I reach for its hanger. A split-second passes before a saleslady descends upon us and takes the dress from my hands.

"I've started a fitting room for your lady friend with a few things she might like. I'll add this to it," she says to Edward.

She's been very professional the entire time we've been here—polite to the point that it borders on being obnoxious. I wonder if she'd treat me the same way had I arrived in her shop looking the way I do without a real-life version of Blane McDonnagh at my side.

"What size shoe do you wear?" she asks. It's the first time she's addressed me directly since we've been here.

"Seven." It comes out sounding like a question; I can't imagine why she wants to know.

"I'll get a pair of heels for you to wear when you try on the dresses."

I follow her to the fitting room, cringing.

**-o-O-o-**

"You must have tried one of them by now," Edward's voice booms from the other side of the fitting-room door. "It doesn't take _that _long for you to unlace your boots."

He doesn't realize I've tried three of them. The first two didn't work at all; they were made for someone with boobs. Not only did I not want to call attention to the fact I'm eighteen and still can't fill out a dress, I didn't want him to think I was a slut. Nice girls don't wear things that expose their aureoles when they lean forward. I took the dresses off as quickly as I could so I wouldn't have to show him what they looked like on me. The one I'm wearing now isn't like the others were, but something about it still doesn't feel right. It's knee-length and sleeveless, and has a deep v neckline. Not only does it cover more skin, it even manages to create the illusion I have curves.

"I'm in the blue one," I tell him, studying my reflection. The dressing room is palatial—only slightly smaller than the dorm room I shared with Alice. Three of the four walls are floor-to-ceiling mirrors; I can see myself from every angle. I've never had such a good view of my butt before, and I'm kind of fascinated by it. I may have no boobs, but my ass is kind of nice.

"That was my favorite. Does it fit?"

"Yes." In that sense, the dress looks as if it was made for me. Not only does it fit, it's fitted—and it shows more of how I'm shaped than anything I've ever worn. I shouldn't feel exposed—it's not as if it's hooker-tight or trashy—but I do. It's a sexy dress, the kind of dress that makes strangers notice you. I've never been comfortable with that kind of attention, and the thought of getting it from his father makes me want to spew.

"Do you like it?"

"I don't know," I say, thinking I would like it on someone else. "It's so different from anything I've ever worn. It's pretty..." I fumble with the straps, sighing. "I just don't think it's me."

"May I please see it?" he asks.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Telling him no doesn't feel like an option.

"Okay," I say, stepping away from the mirror. The dress has a narrow skirt, but there's a slit over my left thigh. Though walking isn't as hard as I thought it would be, as I move toward the fitting-room door, I see my mom's face heavy with disdain. I no longer feel as if I'm a young woman in a high-end Washington DC boutique. I'm back to being a little girl in bungalow in Washington State, playing dress-up in the clothes her mother never wears. The shag carpet in my parents' bedroom is hideous, but I don't realize it because I don't know anything else. I walk on the old orange rug slowly, wearing a cheap version of the shoes I have on now. Much like the saleslady at the boutique, my mom keeps them in her closet, just in case. I scuff my feet as I move, trying my best not to topple over. Even then, I'm enough of a realist to know it's just a matter of time.

I tumble forward, breaking my fall with my hands. Instead of getting up and trying again, I sit on the floor, staring at my mom's shoes. Though the carpet's fuzzy, yarn-like fibers prevent me from bruising, they leave funny indentations in my palms. Massaging the sting out of my newly-acquired rug burn, I don't care that I just sacrificed the top layer of skin on my knees. My future is made of fake patent leather, and not even the crude reality of a metal rod exposed by a missing heel tap could deter me from counting the seconds until it arrives.

When it finally does, it's anti-climactic. Not only are stilettos uncomfortable as hell, I still can't walk in them. This doesn't surprise me as much as the realization I had zero interest in doing so. I don't want to be like my mother—putting all this effort into looking pretty, wearing shoes that hurt and bras that itch so my dad will pay attention to her. I'd rather have people pay attention to who I am than what I'm wearing. By the time I grow into heels, I've already grown out of them.

There's no question I look sexier than I ever have, and though I want Edward to think I'm hot, what I'm wearing right now isn't me. If he likes how I look in this dress, he can't possibly like the way I usually look. And if he doesn't—if he thinks I look as awkward as I feel—I'll know he's disappointed in me. I couldn't live with that. I want him to be as proud to be with me as I am to be with him.

When I step out of the fitting room, Edward is sitting in an arm chair beside a three-way mirror with a platform in front of it. "Wow." He rises to his feet, gesturing for me to stand in front of the mirror. "Come here so I can have a closer look."

I walk toward him and step onto the platform. When I wobble a bit, he laughs.

I give him the Look of Death.

"Sorry," he says. "I've just never seen a woman who couldn't walk in heels."

Of course he hasn't. His socialite ex-girlfriend probably came out of her mother's womb in a designer silk dress and Italian pumps. It makes me feel more inadequate than I would have thought possible.

"Anyway," he continues, "I think you look stunning."

"You mean you're stunned by my lack of grace," I mutter under my breath.

"No, Bella. You're beautiful. But if you don't like it..."

"I like it," I tell him. "I'm just not comfortable in it." A thought occurs to me. "You know, there was a second-hand store we passed on the way here. They had a fun dress in the window from the 1950s. It looked about my size, and it would work for dinner. Maybe we could take a look."

"Is that what this is about?" he asks, laughing. "I can afford to buy you a new dress. I don't want you wearing something used because you don't want me spending money on you."

"That's not it. This just isn't me."

"And an old dress someone else has worn would be?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I like to think I'm my own person–"

"You are."

"Then why do I need to look like everyone else?"

"But if you look the way everyone else looked forty years ago, that's somehow acceptable? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?" he asks, laughing. "This is like when we go out to eat—you always order the cheapest thing on the menu because for some reason you think that's all you deserve. I have money, Bella. I want to spend it on you. Please let me."

He doesn't get it, but I don't want to argue with him. Instead, I let him buy me the dress. If he notices me wiping my eyes with my fingers, he doesn't comment.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 26, 2009**

In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, Edward and I don't talk about our previous relationship. There doesn't seem to be any need. We know we made mistakes, that we hurt each other, that we wasted a ridiculous amount of time. Rehashing our prior failings accomplishes nothing; we can't change what happened, and neither of us wants to recreate our past in the present. So we choose not to go back to the beginning. Instead, we begin again.

It's just as well. Being with Edward is nothing like I thought it would be. It isn't political, and he doesn't campaign. There are no canned speeches delivered with feigned emotion, no promises of a better tomorrow. He doesn't improvise impassioned soliloquies detailing the many ways in which he knows he can improve my quality of life, nor does he try to seduce me with his charm. What he does do is spend as much time with me as he can, letting his actions bear witness to his character. It shouldn't surprise me that they provide a glowing reference, but it does. It seems impossible that a man who lies for a living could be so real with me, but he is.

So we exist, one fabulously mundane moment at a time, doing everyday things together. The more time I spend with him, the more I realize how little I know about who he is now. He's warmer, more open. I don't have to beg him to let me in; he seems to want me there. What's more, I want to be there.

When I wake up Thanksgiving morning, I'm curled against the side of his body. It's warm and comfortable; the last thing I want to do is get out of bed, but kitchen duty calls. As carefully as I can manage, I wiggle out of his arms. I'm halfway across the room when he calls out to me.

"Are you leaving?"

There's something different about his voice. I can't pinpoint what it is—just that it's new to me and it cuts me to the bone. Slowly, I turn back to the bed. As soon as my eyes meet his, I have my answer.

"I haven't upset you, have I?" he asks, seemingly panicked.

I sit on the edge of the bed and brush my fingers across his cheek. Despite how rough and prickly it is against my skin, I love it. Stubble is something he'd never show the public. If he did, voters would know he's human, that he's flawed and real and capable of feeling fear.

"No," I say, offering a gentle smile. "I have to get the turkey in the oven."

He looks at the clock on the bedside table then back at me; I don't think he believes me.

"At six o'clock in the morning?"

I shrug. "Alice insists we need to sit down at four."

"What? Why?"

"She claims that's when your family always ate Thanksgiving dinner. Anyway, there's a lot for me to do, and I have to shower and put on clothes before I can even start."

"Don't."

"Do you really want to leave Thanksgiving dinner to Alice? I thought you were tired of having Peking duck every year."

"No. I mean don't shower and put on clothes." His hand rests on my thigh, his thumb brushing my skin. "I can't think of anything hotter than the sight of you cooking for me wearing nothing but my shirt."

"You_ know_ your shirt isn't the only thing I'm wearing right now."

He smiles. "I was going to ask you to take those off."

"Right. I'm sure that would go over really well with Alice and Jasper. That's the kind of thing I'd only do in my own kitchen."

"In that case, there's only one solution," he says. "I guess I'll just have to spend Christmas in Chicago with you."

"You'd do that?"

"Haven't you realized? For you, I'd do anything."

I'm starting to believe him.

**-o-O-o-**

Despite the fact I'm fully clothed, Edward spends the day in the kitchen with me. Barefoot, wearing jeans and an untucked t-shirt, there's nothing about him that would call to mind the controlled refinement of Senator Cullen. He's the most at ease I've seen him since I came here, and I wonder how often he relaxes like this.

Alice flits in and out of the room, barely able to contain her excitement at hosting her first Thanksgiving dinner.

"You're insane," I tell her. "It's just the four of us."

"Would you streamline the menu because we're a small group?"

"No. Cooking is my thing; you know this."

"Right. Well, aesthetics are my thing." She turns to Edward. "I'm setting the table with our mother's formal china."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" he asks.

"I thought you'd enjoy seeing it," she explains.

"I can't even remember what it looks like."

"Oh," she says. "Well, it's very formal."

"Okay..." He waves the back of his hand, gesturing for her to get to the point.

"Do you not remember what the rule of the house was growing up? If the china came out, we had to dress for dinner. And I'm telling you the china is coming out. Interpret that how you will. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a table to set." She hurries out of the room.

"Don't worry about Alice," he says. "Wear want you want. I'm sure she understands that you're limited to what you have in your suitcase. We can both stay in jeans, and Alice will just have to deal with it."

"It's fine. I brought a cocktail dress, just in case."

He leans against the counter, shaking his head in disbelief.

"What?" I ask.

"I thought you hated dressing up."

"No. I hated wearing anything that wasn't my style. I still do, in fact."

"Tell me what your style is like."

"You'll see," I say, smiling.

**-o-O-o-**

I don't let Edward anywhere near me when I get changed. I don't want him to see me as a work in progress, and I don't want his input. I want him to see who I am, that I can have good taste even if it's different than his. That class doesn't require money. That I don't have to wear something that makes me feel uncomfortable to be appropriate. And then—if he's lucky—maybe I'll pick out his tie for him.

"May I come in?" he says from the hallway.

"No."

"Are you naked?"

"No."

"Damn."

"Sorry," I say, giggling.

I may not be naked, but what I'm wearing is the next best thing. My favorite article of clothing is a midnight-blue taffeta cocktail dress from the 1950s. It has cap sleeves, a wide scoop neckline that accents my collar bone nicely without showing any of my non-existent cleavage, and a full skirt with a built-in crinoline. It's classic, feminine, and has a kind of innocent sophistication that's understatedly sexy. Even better—it hides the fact I'm bottom heavy.

I put on my lipstick and step into red silk kitten heels. "You can come in now."

The guestroom door swings open, but he doesn't come inside. He stands in the hallway, just staring at me.

"What?"

He opens his mouth then closes it, shaking his head.

"You're starting to make me nervous," I say.

"Don't be; you're perfect."


	22. Réserve de la Famille

I don't own _Twilight_. Huge thanks to Books and LJSummers.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**Delamain Réserve de la Famille Grande Champagne Cognac**

**

* * *

**

**June 20, 1996**

The heels I wear to Edward's birthday dinner aren't bad. Unlike the black patent leather stilettos I wore at the boutique, they have straps and a chunky heel, and my ankles don't feel as if they're going to give out on me each time I take a step. The shoes aren't a problem, but my underwear—or lack thereof— is a different story. The blue dress shows everything, and pantylines are no exception. For the first time in my life, I have no choice but to wear a thong. The narrow strip of Lycra between my legs offers no coverage whatsoever, but I tell myself not to worry about it because my dress comes down to my knees. It isn't until we leave the apartment and I feel air on my butt-cheeks that the realization strikes me—I'm about to meet my boyfriend's father with my girly bits exposed to the elements. I tell myself it's not a big deal, that no one will be able to tell just by looking at me. When we arrive at the restaurant, my delusion is happily in place. As Edward gives his name to the maitre d', I listen to the music playing over the sound system. It's Bach's _Air on the G String. _I walk to our table thinking I want to die.

Mr. Cullen stands when he sees us. "Hello, Edward."

"Good evening, sir." Edward shakes his father's hand before gesturing to me. "You remember Isabella?"

I expect recognition to show on Mr. Cullen's face, but it doesn't. He's not looking at me disapprovingly, but there's no warmth there, either. I wonder if he's noticed the way my dress fits and has assumed I'm the kind of girl who'd go True Scotsman to a four-star restaurant. Then I realize what his passing judgment on me like that actually means—that my boyfriend's dad checked out my ass—and it makes me want to spew. I wish I was more comfortable standing up to Edward. If I hadn't been such a pussy at the boutique, I wouldn't have to worry if mine was hanging out in front of Edward's father. I _should _have put my Doc-Marten-clad foot down and insisted we look for a dress that would accommodate actual undies and not this ridiculous anal floss.

Faking a smile, I clench my thighs. "We met briefly the day Alice moved into the dorm."

"Yes, I recall." He leans into me as if he's going to kiss my cheek. His breath is hot against my skin, but his mouth never actually touches me. "My daughter speaks very highly of you."

I'm not sure if I should be offended or relieved he faked kissing me. I mean, according to Edward, his dad goes around siring offspring with random women. Who knows where his lips have been? Then again, I look like I'm not wearing any underwear. It's possible Mr. Cullen thinks I'm a gold-digging tramp—a theory which the dress his son bought for me would seem to support. My eyes scan the room as I take my seat. The women are dressed pretty much the way I am. For all I know, their boyfriends paid for their dresses, too. Hell, they could even be call girls. But that would mean I'm dressed like a paid escort. Oh my god, I must look like a hooker. I don't think I've never wanted to feel the fraying cotton of my favorite jeans so badly as I do right now. Who cares if they're not fashionable or impressive? I bought them myself, and there's something to be said for that.

Throughout dinner, Mr. Cullen is somewhat cold and very formal, but he seems to treat everyone he encounters the same way so I don't take it personally. He's given me no reason to be uncomfortable around him, but I am and I can't understand why. So I sit in silence at Edward's side as he and his father discuss places I've never been and people I hope I'll never have to meet. I nod occasionally to indicate I'm listening, all the while fiddling with my napkin on my lap.

"This is all largely irrelevant," Mr. Cullen says. "Thankfully, Clinton is almost assured a second term—assuming he can keep his wife in check."

Edward nods. "I daresay you're right."

"Her type is always a liability."

I wait for Edward to disagree, but he doesn't. My quick intake of breath seems deafening to me as I turn my head to look at him, desperate for any indication that the person sitting next to me is whom I think he is. My panic lasts all of a second. Edward smiles when his eyes meet mine, and though his current affectations may not be familiar to me, the need and the pure adoration I feel for him is. I don't wonder if I love him, but I can't help but question the extent to which I know him. I spend the rest of dinner trying to convince myself one doesn't invalidate the other.

**-o-O-o-**

Mr. Cullen takes two sips of cognac before announcing he has another engagement. After taking care of the check, he rises to his feet. Edward follows suit, but gestures for me to remain seated.

"Happy birthday, Edward."

"Thank you, sir."

There are no words of affection, nor are there any expressions of regret that their time together has ended. They shake hands from opposite sides of the table, and Mr. Cullen leaves. Edward's feet are rooted in place, but he doesn't stay with me. His face is blank as he stares off into space. Seconds pass, or maybe even a minute—I'm too stressed out to keep count. He sinks back into his chair. Leaning his elbows onto the table, he slumps forward and exhales. I know he's hurting, but I don't know why or what to do about it. That Edward would ever become upset in public is as weird to me as using "daresay" in modern conversation or having an "income" I do nothing to earn. I'm still processing it all when he straightens his posture and reaches for the cognac in front of him, raising the glass to his father's now-empty seat.

"Réserve de la Famille," he says, staring at the amber liquid. "How apropos." In a single gulp, he downs it.

I take a small sip from the glass in front of me. "It's nice, I guess. It feels kind of weird going down. It's only been available to the public for the past ten years or so. Before then, the family that makes it kept it for themselves."

"How could you–"

"Sorry. God, I can be such a dumbass. I wasn't trying to change the subject. You know how it is when you know you need to say something but you have no idea what, so you rattle off random facts that don't mean anything?" I close my eyes, sighing. "Of course you don't," I mutter to myself. "You always know what to say." I take a deep breath and start over. "I don't know what you need from me right now or if it's even me you need, but I know you're hurting and you need _something._ You have this intense-yet-mentally-absent look on your face and..." I stop, not sure what to say. I want to tell him to talk about his feelings—that he can lean on me the way I lean on him—but I don't. I'm afraid he'll tell me I wouldn't understand.

"No." He shakes his head. "I was wondering how you knew that."

"Oh. The sommelier told your father."

"When?"

"After I made that obnoxiously loud clang trying to make my fork and knife perfectly parallel at four o'clock while keeping the pointy things up and the blade facing me."

His forehead scrunches, and he shakes his head.

"What? Don't pretend you didn't hear it."

"They were speaking French, Bella."

I shrug, feeling self-conscious. "I'm good at languages."

"Apparently. The only phrase I got out of that exchange was _pied-à-terre._ I should be used to it by now. My father has always been a chauvinistic pig who uses anyone he doesn't deem his equal. As far as he's concerned, he has no equal."

"I know _pied-à-terre _has a certain connotation, but sometimes it just means a second home."_  
_

"Except we're talking about my father." Shaking his head, he reaches for Mr. Cullen's barely-touched cognac. His eyes meet mine and, instead of taking a sip, he places the glass on the table in front of him. "I'm sorry," he says, sighing. "Chugging floaters in four-star restaurants isn't exactly classy."

"It's not as if I care."

"_I_ care."

Staying seated, he turns so he's facing me. When I try to do the same, my legs crash into his. He rests his hand against my knee, stroking my skin with his thumb as if he's trying to rub away pain.

"You don't have to do that," I say. "I'm not hurt."

"I didn't think you were."

I expect him to stop touching me—I know he doesn't like to be physically affectionate in public—but he doesn't. The look on his face is almost identical to the one Alice gets when she wants to ask me for something but is afraid of how I'll respond. I open my mouth to ask him what it is out of habit. Then I remember how different Edward is from Alice. I can only assume if he needs something from me, I won't have to pry it out of him.

"I don't want to be like him," he says.

"You aren't." I want more than anything to see his smile. Not knowing how else to make that happen, I change the subject. "You never did tell me what you wanted for your birthday."

There's no joy in his responding laughter. "To get drunk," he says, eying the glass in front of him.

"If that's what you need to feel better, I'll close my eyes."

When I open them, all three glasses on the table are empty.

**-o-O-o-**

Edward insists he isn't drunk, but I know better. Between the wine at dinner and the cognac afterward, he's easily consumed twice the alcohol he did on New Year's Eve, and that night he walked into a wall on his way to the bathroom. Though he isn't exactly unsteady on his feet, he lacks his usual grace—it's only a matter of time before his coordination follows suit. I suggest we take a cab home—I can barely walk without tripping in heels as it is. There's no way I'd be able to keep him from falling, too. But he wants to walk and since it's his birthday, I don't argue.

When we're finally in front of his apartment building, he keeps walking.

"Where are we going?" I ask, stumbling along at his side.

He leads me into the neighboring alley, stopping only after we've reach a point where the lights from the street cease to illuminate us.

I let out a nervous laugh. "What?"

He turns to face me, still saying nothing. His hands are in my hair as he kisses me. It's _that _kind of kiss—the good kind, the kind that makes me dizzy. It's the kind of kiss he's never given me anywhere anyone can see.

"I need you," he says.

"You have me."

I kiss his mouth again. He takes a few steps forward; I stumble along until my back is pressed against the brick wall of the apartment building.

"And if I need you now?" His hand trails down the front of my body and squeezes my breast.

"Here?"

"Here."

"Okay," I say, giggling. I don't believe for a second he's serious.

"Wrap your legs around me."

"I can't; my dress is too narrow."

He grabs the edges of the slit in my skirt and pulls, tearing the fabric to my hip.

I look at my now-exposed thigh, then up at his face. "I can't believe you just did that."

"Wrap your leg around me," he repeats, loosening his belt. "Unless you don't want to..."

I do as he says; I want to make him happy more than anything.

He pushes my thong to the side. "I need you to keep quiet. The thrill of getting caught...that's what's exciting. Actually getting caught is for amateurs. Bite my shoulder if you need to, just don't make a sound."

Seconds later, he's inside me. The bricks scrape my back with each of his movements, but I don't tell him to stop. I need to prove to him not everyone is like his father—that some love is selfless, and I'm willing to put him first.

So that's what I do.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 26, 2009**

"Dinner was amazing...No, Daddy," Alice says, laughing. "Of course I didn't cook it. Izzy—you remember her, don't you? She flew out from Chicago earlier this week, and she made dinner for us. Are you familiar with _Un Souvenir Léger_? Oh...Well, Izzy's their sommelier. She made all of Edward's favorites; he's here, too."

The moment Alice says his name, Edward begins shaking his head.

"Would you like to talk to him?" she asks, ignoring Edward's protests. "Hang on a sec." She offers him the phone. "It's our father."

He turns up his palms, mouthing the word, "So?"

She rolls her eyes and thrusts the phone into his hands. "Talk to him," she whispers.

He raises it to his ear. "Happy Thanksgiving, sir."

Not wanting to make things any more uncomfortable than they already are, I pull Alice into the guestroom with me.

"Was that necessary?"

"Yes," she insists.

"Why? What good could possibly come from it?"

"They've been at odds with each other for twenty years."

I throw my hands in the air. "Exactly!"

"It's time for Edward to let it go."

"Do you even know what _it_ is?" I ask.

"No," she admits. "But that probably means it's something stupid, and that's really sad. Life is too short for this bullshit, Izzy."

I don't argue with her; I have a cheese course to serve.

**-o-O-o-**

"You're still so soft. I've always loved that about your body...the way your skin feels against mine."

I can't control my giggle. He's naked except for boxer briefs; I'm wearing panties and one of his undershirts.

"What?" he asks.

"You're not feeling any of my good parts."

"Every part of you is good."

"Some are better than others."

"Then show me some of the best ones." He tugs on the hem of my t-shirt. "Please?"

I know what he wants and why he's asking. Dealing with his father has always made him crave comfort—something he typically prefers to receive sexually. As much as I want to comply, it doesn't feel right. I gave him my soul forever and a decade ago, and though giving him my body again shouldn't feel like such a big deal, it does. Not only is it too soon, it would be for all the wrong reasons.

"I want to be more than a means to an end for you."

"You are," he insists.

"Tonight I wouldn't be."

"I am not my father! More things matter to me than orgasms and avarice."

I don't want to upset him, but if he expects our relationship to work, we can't tiptoe around this. Politician or not, he has to realize his hypocrisy.

"I'll grant you avarice."

"You can't be serious."

"Let's be real, here. By your own admission, you've had sexual relationships with women for no purpose other than your own fulfillment."

"What does _that_ have to do with anything?"

"I refuse to be one of them."

He clasps my hands, and his eyes meet mine. "You aren't."

"I would be tonight."

If he disagrees, he doesn't verbalize it. Sighing, he arranges my t-shirt so my stomach is once again covered.

"May I hold you?" he asks.

"I'd like that."

He rests his head against my cotton-covered breasts. Despite the fact he's wearing boxers, he's asleep within moments.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. **


	23. Apéritif

I don't own _Twilight._

Huge thanks to LJ Summers and Bookishqua.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**Aperatif**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

**June 20, 1996**

Despite his insistence that I not make a sound, Edward isn't quiet. Still pressing me against the brick wall, he brushes my hair from my forehead.

"Please," he says, cupping the side of my face.

It doesn't matter that I have no idea what he's asking—if it's within my power, he's welcome to it. I just hate to see him hurting.

"Anything," I whisper.

His pleas become louder, and though the pace of his thrusts borders on frantic, his eyes remain fixed on mine.

"Please."

Not knowing what he wants, I tell him what I do know. "I love you."

After he comes, he collapses against me, but the brick wall keeps us from falling. As his breathing returns to normal, I loosen the death-grip my legs have on his hips. When my feet are firmly on the ground, he releases his hold on me and closes his pants.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

My back is scraped up, my thighs are sore, and were I not leaning against our apartment building, I'm fairly sure I'd fall over. Then I look down and see the damage he's done to my dress, and the sheer joy that comes with the knowledge I won't have to wear it again more than compensates for my physical discomfort. I'm elated, until I realize I have to walk around the corner and into our building looking like...well...like I'd just had sex against a wall in an alley. I wonder how often he's done this—if despite the fact he dislikes public displays of affection he has some kind of bizarre fetish for public sex. As much as I want to make him happy, I can't see myself doing this with any regularity. The thought of someone seeing me like this is mortifying enough; if anyone were to catch us in the act, I think I'd die.

"Bella?"

We were having sex ten minutes ago. Part of him is still inside me—even if gravity is doing its best to change this. I _should_ be able to look at his face, but I can't.

"I feel naked," I say, staring at the ground.

There's silence, and I think maybe he's disappointed, that I haven't lived up to his fantasy. Then I feel fabric cover my shoulders, and though I can't see what it is, it's starched and it smells like him. When I raise my eyes, he's shirtless, holding his tie in one of his hands.

"Let's get you home."

It's the best suggestion he's had all night.

**-o-O-o-**

When we get back to the apartment, I head right to the bathroom.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," I say, shutting the door behind me. It's not exactly a lie—though I'm not okay at the moment, I think I will be if I have some time to myself to process things. After turning on the water so he'll think I'm in the shower, I sit on the toilet lid and try to wrap my mind around the past few hours. It would be so easy to blame how I feel right now on Edward, but I know it isn't his doing. I agreed to wear the dress; then I permitted him to rip it off me in public. If I feel like_ that _kind of girl, it's no one's fault but my own.

I put his shirt and what's left of my dress in the hamper. Even though it's damaged beyond repair, I can't bring myself to throw away something that cost more than the car I drove in high school. The thong is a different story; that shit goes right in the trash.

I put my hand under the shower stream, then adjust the temperature so the water is absolute hottest I can stand. Just because I can't see any dirt doesn't mean I'm not filthy. I mean, I just had sex in an alley. Something tells me it's going to take a lot more than hot shower and a bar of Irish Spring before I feel clean again. Though I think I got a little carried away with the temperature—my back begins to burn the moment the water touches my body—I don't make it cooler. I stare at the blisters on my feet, all the while trying to convince myself there's no difference between dirt and feeling dirty. I pretend the water swirling around the drain contains both, and the sewer pipe buried beneath the asphalt of the alley will carry all of it away.

"I hurt you."

I hadn't heard Edward come into the shower, but it doesn't surprise me he's here.

"You didn't mean to," I say.

"Does that matter?" Standing behind me, he lifts my hair off my back and rests it in front of my shoulder. "Your back is all scraped up. I should have known that would happen–"

"Neither of us were thinking all that clearly." I'd played along in the alley because I wanted him to feel good; I hate the thought of him feeling badly about it now. "You had a lot to drink tonight, and I...well...it's just hard for me to say no to you."

"That's not good."

I close my eyes, sighing. "I know."

His lips brush lightly across my back. It's barely a touch, but it's there.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Me, too."

**-o-O-o-**

**November 29, 2009**

Though the room is completely dark when I open my eyes, I know the reason I'm awake. Edward's always been an early riser. Evidence that time hasn't changed this is right behind me, pressing against my microfiber-covered ass. Despite the fact I've yet to touch him there again, I've grown re-accustomed to feeling it poke me. Though his part is anything but small, its obvious presence is only a small part of the experience of waking up in his arms. There's also his scent, the heat of his body, and the tickle of his stubble against my skin. More importantly, there's the overwhelming feeling this is right, that I'm where I was meant to be. It's wonderful beyond description, until I realize tonight I'll go to sleep alone. It makes me need more of him.

His embrace is tight enough that turning to face him is difficult but, after a bit of wiggling, my face is pressed against his chest. I'm about to fall back to sleep when he shifts his hips, causing his boxer-covered erection to poke between my thighs. Gasping, I lift my head so I can see his face.

"I know I'm taking liberties," he says, "and I'm sorry."

"You're lying."

"About taking liberties?" He moves his hips again, this time rubbing himself against me. "Surely this qualifies."

"I meant you're lying about being sorry."

He smiles. "Oh. You're right."

The next thing I know, I'm lifting my t-shirt over my head and tossing it onto the floor. I don't do it thinking this my last chance to feel his skin against mine. I do it because this incarnation of us is just beginning, and I think it's time for us behave like any other new couple who wants to get to know each other a bit better. I do it because despite the fact I want to wait to make love to him until after he's seen my life in Chicago, I still want to lick him.

He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, and all I can think is how he isn't close enough.

"Can you be quiet?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Take off your boxers and give them to me."

Two seconds later, there's a wad of gray cotton in my hand.

"I doubt I've ever seen a lawmaker move so quickly," I say, straddling his lap.

He rubs himself against me, letting out a low moan.

"One more sound out of you, and I'll gag you with these. Is that understood?"

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it without saying a sound. He's smiling when he nods.

Separated by microfiber, we move as if we're joined. He comes seconds after I do, and even though we've both had orgasms, we know we've yet to climax.

**-o-O-o-**

"I swore to myself I wouldn't cry." Alice wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "I was smart to make Edward leave the room for this; I'd never hear the end of it. It's just..." She throws her arms around me, pulling me against her. "I'm being silly. I mean, I'm seeing you at Christmas."

"You'll see me more than that," I say. "Edward sent me his schedule; once I know mine, we'll be able to plan my next visit. It won't be another decade. I promise."

"Oh, I know." Her arms tighten around me. "I'm so happy to have you in my life again. The past ten years, I wasn't missing a friend. I felt as if I'd lost part of myself. God, that makes me sound insane."

"No, it doesn't," I say, resting my head on her shoulder. "It was the same for me."

When I look up, Edward is standing in the doorway.

"And me," he whispers.

**-o-O-o-**

"You can just drop me off," I say. "There's no need to deal with parking or anything. It's not as if you can wait at the gate with me, and I know it will get complicated if anyone sees you–"

"I don't care about that."

"–and I don't want you to see me cry."

"Bella." Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he rests the other on my knee. "This isn't the end."

"I know."

"I go to Illinois all the time."

"I know that, too. I just..." I close my eyes, sighing. "This is going to sound crazy, but I have this sense of dread...I can't even explain it. I mean, I know we can't stay in our bubble forever, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to be without you again."

"You won't be," he says.

I lay my hand on top of his, and he threads his fingers through mine. We remain silent as he pulls up to the loading area. I expect him to just pop the trunk, but he doesn't. After putting on the hazards, he gets out of the car. I wait on the curb and focus on breathing.

When he hands me my suitcase, my eyes fill with tears. I'm only seconds away from losing my composure; then I feel his arms around my waist and his breath against my face.

"I'm not going to say good-bye to you," he says. "It doesn't seem appropriate."

"Okay..."

"No, really. I love you, Isabella. One way or another, we're going to make this work." He leans forward as if he about to kiss me.

"People will see," I say, turning my face.

"Let them."

His lips touch mine, and there's no longer any space between us. A moment later he's gone.

**-o-O-o-**

The line to go through security is long. Surrounded by people, I work my way through it alone, mentally replaying the last time I walked these steps. Just when my fatalism overwhelms me—when I start to think maybe everything is the same now as it was ten years ago—a TSA agent reminds me I need to place my Docs and any electronic devices I may be carrying into gray plastic bins to be x-rayed. It's not a foreign concept to me—I've lost count of how many times I've done this before—it's strange to me because I didn't do it _then_. It finally occurs to me there was no need. In 1999, it hadn't occurred to us that terrorists would use airplanes to bring down buildings. The world has changed so much since then—never again we will be lulled into a false sense of security thinking the preservation of everything we've worked to achieve requires no effort on our parts. We learned this the hard way. By the time I board my flight, I've stopped wondering if this time things will be different—I know they will be.

When I land in Chicago, Carlisle is waiting for me at the baggage claim. Though we hadn't discussed how I'd get home from the airport, I'm not entirely surprised to see him. Since the moment we met, he's been protective of me in a way that would infuriate me if it came from anyone else. But Carlisle doesn't do it because he thinks I'm incapable of taking care of myself, nor does he have an ulterior motive. He does it because he wants to, and he knows I'd do it for him.

The moment he sees me, he smiles.

"You didn't have to come get me," I say, throwing myself into his arms.

"I was in the neighborhood."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Well...yeah. It's not as if I've had much practice."

Laughing, I step out of his embrace. "Not that I mind being spared from a cab-ride, but..."

"You'd like to know why I'm really here."

"Well, yes. When my flight came in from Paris four months ago, you texted me saying you were too hungover to come get me. The words 'deal with it' come to mind."

He shrugs and, when he speaks, his voice is soft. "_He _wasn't in Paris, Izzy."

"This time it's different."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

I know where this conversation is headed, and no good can come from it.

"Where's Esme?" I ask, changing the subject.

"She's at home, working on recipes for the Christmas tasting menu. You should expect a phone call from her later to discuss wine pairings." He stops talking and shakes his head. "I'll never understand how you two can eat carcass."

"It's yummy."

"Don't get me started."

"Oh, life of a vegetarian chef!" I tease. "A superfluous trip to O'Hare is preferable to seeing carrion on your Corian."

On the drive to my apartment, we discuss everything but Edward. I know better than to try to convince Carlisle he's changed; it's something Carlisle will have to see for himself.

And come Christmas, he will.

* * *

**I posted an outtake from this chapter last Monday. If you'd like to read it, it's listed as outtakes from _Fall to Ruin One Day_ on my profile. Thank you for reading.**


	24. Bottle Variation

I don't own_ Twilight._

Thanks to books and LJ Summers. _  
_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**Bottle Variation**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

**June 23, 1996**

For as long as I can remember, I've loved thunderstorms. I'd curl up under the afghan my Gram made for me when I was a baby and, through my bedroom window, I'd watch the sky purge whatever had been making it dark. Then, more often than not, I'd do the same. My current ritual has changed a bit. Now I'm in a much bigger bed, snuggling under a fleece stadium blanket embroidered with Harvard's logo. Stranger than that is the fact I'm not alone—Edward is stretched out beside me reading a book. Needless to say, I couldn't pay attention to the storm if my life depended on it; I'm far too focused on him. Ever since his birthday dinner, he's been withdrawn, almost melancholy. As I want to be there for him—to support him any way I can—it's hard for me to do if I don't know what what's bothering him. Edward needs to purge just as much as the storm clouds, but I know he'll never do it on his own.

"What was your mom like?" I ask.

"Whoa," he says, laughing. "That came out of nowhere."

"Not really. I just met your dad, and you're not like him at all."

"You don't think so?"

"No. I mean, you lapse into this weirdness where you use words like 'daresay' and speak with your mouth mostly closed, but those are just mannerisms. You're warm; he isn't. I'm guessing you're more like your mom." I shrug. "But if talking about her makes you upset, you don't have to–"

He rolls onto his side, facing me. "It's doesn't—believe me. It's just the last thing I expected you to say. You'd think after all this time, I'd realize how hard it is to predict what's going to come out of your mouth."

"Oh, come on. It wasn't _that_ random."

"Maybe not for you," he says smiling.

Several seconds pass before he speaks again. "This is harder than I thought it would be."

"The last thing I want to do is upset you–"

"You're not; I just don't know where to start." He closes his eyes, sighing. "I could tell you how strong she was, that she was selfless and put herself last, but it wouldn't mean anything—it's what we're supposed to say when we've lost someone. In her case, it was true. She's why I want to go into politics."

"Your mom was a politician?"

"No. She was what people would call a socialite, though she hated that word. Yes, she was born into privilege, but she was also a tireless advocate for children and education. She never lost sight of the full picture and always did what she could to help those who couldn't help themselves."

"You look like her," I say, staring at the picture of her on his desk.

"Do you think so?" His demeanor seems to brighten. "I know I have her coloring, but I always thought I looked more like my father. Alice is the exact opposite. She has my mother's facial features but our father's blue eyes and blond hair."

"Get out!" I smack him lightly on his shoulder. "Alice is a natural blonde?"

"You didn't know that?" He slides his hand under the hem of of my tank top, brushing his thumb against my bare skin.

"I knew she dyed it, but I'd always assumed her hair was reddish like yours."

He shakes his head.

"I can't believe I didn't know that."

"Bella?"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to talk about my sister."

The second I feel his lips against mine, I don't want to talk about her, either.

**-o-O-o-**

**November, 29, 2009**

As much as my life has changed in the past week, my apartment is just the way I left it—well, almost. The one exception is a faded yellow sheet of paper prominently placed in the center of my kitchen counter. I don't have to look at it closely; I know exactly what it is.

"Come on, Carlisle. Surely you have better things to do on a holiday than rummage through old boxes."

"Huh. Right," he mutters. "And Senator Cullen doesn't."

I roll my eyes. "I heard that."

"That was my intention. I do have some control over what comes out of my mouth, you know."

"I don't like you very much right now."

"Because I say it like it is."

"Hardly. You know very well my box is not old. It's pretty—pink and sweet-smelling—kind of like a dew-covered wildflower on a lovely spring morning."

"You're missing the point."

I cross my arms over my chest. "Wait—does that mean you have one? Ugh!" I groan, covering my eyes with my hands. "What will it take to for you to trust my judgment and be happy for me?"

"Look at me." He pulls my hands away from my face but doesn't let go of them. "This isn't about you. You're strong and smart and more than capable of making sound decisions in every area of your life—except when it comes to him. And if the two of you spent the week the way you claim you did—if you told him exactly why you left—then there's nothing in that letter that will upset you."

As much as I don't want to cry in front of him, I can't stop myself. "You think I'm setting myself up..." I angle my head toward the letter on the counter. "...for a repeat of _that_."

"You have to at least acknowledge it's a possibility. Come here," he says, pulling me into his arms. His embrace is strong—comforting. "Listen, Izzy. I understand why you don't want to look at what you wrote in that letter. And you know what? You don't have to—you lived it, and that's enough. Cullen is a different story. He needs to read it."

He's right, but that doesn't make this any easier.

"I love the shit out of you."

"It's mutual, you know."

"It had better be!" I give him a quick squeeze before stepping out of his embrace. "I'm a mess," I say, wiping under my eyes. Then I see the marks my mascara left on his shirt. "You're worse."

"Eh." He shrugs. "I'm a chef; every article of clothing I own has stains on it somewhere."

I smile. As much as I know I'll miss Edward, it's good to be home.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 30, 2009**

I'm becoming like a teenager about my cell phone. Every time it makes a sound, I reach for it excitedly, knowing there's a chance it's Edward. Even crazier, more often than not, it is him—this is why I pull it out of my apron pocket the second I feel it vibrate. It doesn't matter that I'm with Esme and Carlisle's mother, Sarah, or that I'm supposed to be making pastry for the beef wellington. Though it's a message from Alice, the image it contains is worth the interruption.

_From the Cullen family album. You'll never see this one in _People Magazine._ Enjoy!_

When I click the thumbnail to make it full-size, I see Edward and a pint-sized Alice are sitting on the sofa beside their father. It's no surprise to see her dressed as an elf—what's shocking is the sullen, ginger-haired adolescent at her side is wearing reindeer antlers which may or may not be blinking. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard.

"What's so funny?" Esme asks.

"It's better for you to see for yourself." I hand her my phone and resume kneading the dough. "Trust me."

"Okay, that's hilarious. You'll love this, Sarah." She gestures for her mother-in-law to take a look. "Awkward Family Photos has nothing on this picture of Izzy's boyfriend."

If Sarah thinks the picture is at all funny, she doesn't laugh. That in and of itself isn't strange—she doesn't know Edward personally, and that's a huge part of what makes this so funny. I wait for her to return my phone, but she doesn't. Instead, she stares at the picture for what seems like a ridiculous amount of time, while all the color drains from her face. When she finally gives it back to me, her hands are shaking.

"Is everything all right?" I ask.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

It's the first time she's jumped down my throat in the decade I've known her. I'm not sure how to respond, so instead I look down at the picture of Alice, Edward, and Carlisle.

Carlisle?

I must be losing my mind. I know very well who the man in the picture is—he's Edward's father. It only seems weird because I've never seen a picture of him when he was in his thirties. If it's true what they say—that everyone has a twin—Carlisle's would surely be William Cullen. It makes me curious to see what Carlisle's father looks like and if he bears any resemblance to Edward, though I know there's no way I'll ever find out. Carlisle knows nothing about the man, and Sarah insists it's better this way. He won't even let people use his first name—he hates the fact he was named after a man he considers nothing more than a sperm donor. On exactly one occasion, I made the mistake of calling him William. He freaked out.

Oh my god.

My hand flies up to my mouth, inadvertently flinging my phone across the room.

Esme doesn't even look up from her chopping board. "That's it, Izzy, you're cut off. No more armagnac until we get some food into you."

I tell myself none of this means anything—that it's all a bunch of freak coincidences—until Sarah lays her hand on top of mine and mouths the word _please_.

"Hello, ladies. Sorry I'm late."

Carlisle's voice startles me. I fake a smile as he kisses his wife and his mother before joining us at the counter. Over the past ten years, I've gotten to know his features well. Given the evolution of our relationship, it makes sense that I would. We've been roommates, best friends, lovers and now that he's with Esme, it feels as if he's family. There have always been aspects of his appearance that reminded me of Edward, but I've never thought about it much. Given the fact I've been intimate with both of them, it always felt kind of wrong to compare. At the moment, I'm too shocked to care if it makes me feel trashy. I stand there for what feels like an eternity, staring at Carlisle. He's taller than Edward, but not by much. They have the same chiseled jaw, the same smile, the same laugh. I look at Sarah. Usually her eyes are the same clear shade of blue as Carlisle's, but at the moment they're hazy, as if she's about to cry. When she raises a trembling finger to her lips, I know.

I know without a doubt.

Carlisle is Edward's brother.


	25. Armagnac

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**Armagnac**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

**September 1, 1996**

"This is harder than I thought it would be." I drag the phone across my dorm room to the fridge and get myself a can of Diet Coke. "I mean, I expected it would be an adjustment, that I'd miss you during the week. But this is way worse."

"It's the same for me, you know." His voice is deep and sexy, like always. It makes me want to see him naked.

"Ugh!" I close my eyes, sighing.

"What's wrong?"

"I called because I thought hearing your voice would help."

"Hasn't it?"

"No. I only miss you more." I flip the tab that opens the can and take a sip.

"Then move in with me."

I start to choke; there's soda in my nose.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"No—I mean, yes! Sorry. I just snorted Coke."

"You what?"

"I was drinking when you said that, and somehow Diet Coke wound up in my nose."

"Oh," he says, laughing. "I should have known."

"Were you serious?"

"Yes. My lease is up at the end of this month; I was thinking we could look at places together. We could move into a one-bedroom apartment equidistant to our respective campuses."

I want to lick him so badly, I consider licking the mouthpiece of the phone. Then I remember it's campus property and probably germ-ridden. The fact doing so would be borderline psychotic only occurs to me as an afterthought.

"What do you think?" he asks.

I say the first thing that comes into my head. "I love you."

"Is that a yes?"

As if he has to ask!

"Yes!"

**-o-O-o-**

**November 30, 2009**

After I finish making the pastry, I excuse myself to the patio. I stare at the leaves blowing around the backyard, hoping to clear my head enough for me to be able to think. If Carlisle knows—if he's known all along—I'm not sure what to think. If he doesn't, it's only a matter of time before he finds out. This isn't something I can keep from Edward—that his half-brother is my best friend and former lover. At the same, I don't know how to tell him—shit, I don't even know how I'm going to manage to go back inside. The breeze has a bite to it and carries the smell of oil heat and wood-burning fireplaces. I breathe deeply, hoping I'll calm down enough to go inside and excuse myself for the evening. When my lungs fill with Chanel No. 5 scented air, I know Sarah has joined me.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"No," I say without looking at her. "You wanted to make sure I wasn't on the phone with Edward or Alice. Don't worry. For the time being, at least, you can go on pretending–"

"Watch it, Izzy."

My head whips around to look at her. "Excuse me?"

"I know what you're thinking."

"I doubt that."

"Fine then. Look me in the face and tell me you don't think I'm a whore."

I don't say anything, but not because she's right. I'm too shocked to speak.

"That's what I thought. I'm only going to say this once—you don't get to judge me."

"I wasn't. I just...this is a lot for me to process." I cover my face, sighing. "Does Carlisle know?"

"No, and if you don't mind, I'd like to keep it that way."

At first, I'm relieved—it makes it easy for me to pretend I don't know. Then I realize what her request actually means.

"You're asking me to lie to the four most important people in my life. If they ever find out–"

"They haven't yet."

"And at Christmas, when they're all in same room? What then?" I shake my head. "You have to tell Carlisle before Edward and Alice visit." Having had more than enough, I walk to the door.

"And if I don't?"

I turn to face her. "I will."

I only hope I have the balls to follow through.

**-o-O-o-**

The moment I get home, I pour myself a glass of armagnac. Just as I return the cork to the bottle, my landline rings.

Startled, I answer in a panic. "Hello?"

"There you are! I've been trying to reach you for hours."

"What are you talking about? I just left your house."

"That was my sister's house, and it was thirty-six hours ago. It felt like an eternity to me, but–"

"Edward?"

He laughs. "Who else would it be?"

"I thought you were Carlisle."

"Did my number not appear on the caller ID?"

"I wouldn't know; I don't have it on this line. It's an old rotary phone wired to the wall in my kitchen. No one even has the number."

"No one except Carlisle, apparently."

"He might as well be family."

"So you say."

Oh, if he only knew.

Feeling uncomfortable, I decide to change the subject. "How did you get this number? I don't remember giving it to you."

"You didn't. I...uh...have my ways." Even over the phone, his discomfort is palpable.

I can't control my smile. "Isn't that a grave misuse of power?"

"Only if you mind."

"I don't."

"Then it shouldn't be a problem. Besides, if you'd answered your cell-phone, then I wouldn't have needed to look for alternate methods of contacting you."

"Sorry about that; my phone died while I was making dinner."

"What, did you spill wine on it?"

"Ha. Just so you know, I never spill wine."

"I should hope not."

"My phone's demise was a bit more dramatic. I kind of threw it across the room—long story."

"You always have had a bit of a temper," he says, laughter in his voice.

As much as I want to ask what he's talking about, there's something I want to know more.

"Is access to unlisted phone records a senatorial perk?"

"Why do you want to know?" he asks.

"You claimed you never stopped loving me—that you missed me and tried to get Alice to tell you where I was."

"That's true."

"But if you had access to the information all along, why didn't you look me up yourself?"

"I didn't want to violate your privacy."

"What do you call that stunt you pulled at the airport?"

"The moment I saw you again, I didn't care about possible repercussions. I just wanted to be close to you again, no matter how briefly."

"The fact it was under duress didn't taint the experience?"

"Do you not recall my offer to switch seats with someone in coach? Anyway, I don't want to keep you. I know you have a long day tomorrow; I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I am now." I wasn't—not by a long shot. But hearing his voice made me better than I'd been, and that's saying something. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Sweet dreams."

When I hang up the phone, a legal-sized piece of paper covered with my handwriting catches my eye. It's on the counter, exactly where Carlisle left it. After refilling my armagnac, I pick up the letter and bring it to the sofa with me. I don't read it because I want to remember the way leaving Edward made me fall apart; I read it because I want to remember how Carlisle put me back together.

**-o-O-o-**

Dear Carlisle,

This feels ridiculous—writing you a letter while you're here in the apartment. You begged me to talk to you earlier, and though I wanted to, I just couldn't. Now you're listening to _Automatic for the People_. I've lived with you long enough to know that means you're upset, and given the way the evening went down, it's fairly obvious I'm to blame. So I'm writing what I can't say and hope you'll understand.

I don't know how to explain what the past year has been like for me. You know how it feels when you sleep in a weird position and when you wake up you can't feel your arm? It's there and it's attached, but it doesn't feel like it's a part of you—it doesn't feel like anything at all. It's wrong and a little frightening. And you have to move, right? There's no other option. So you do. Your heart does its job, and you slowly regain sensation in this part of yourself that moments ago felt dead. It's prickly and painful, but it beats losing a limb.

And that's the only way I can think to describe what it was like to come out here. For the first few months, I felt nothing. It scared the shit out of me, and I knew I had to do something, that if I didn't I'd feel dead forever. I tried to move on, but it hurt like hell.

For a while, I needed it. I thought if I worked through everything, eventually I'd feel like myself again. The problem is that I can't remember how that feels. This is why I freaked when you tried to kiss me. Not because I didn't want you to; I do. You make me feel things I thought I'd never feel again. But then you told me you were in love with me, and I panicked. I don't handle anxiety well. It makes me do dumb shit like run off to my room and lock the door. What you don't get is that it would have been worse had I stayed. My experience may be limited, but I know guys don't deal well when they tell a girl they love her and she starts crying because she thinks she can't love again the way she loved him, that _that_ part of herself is dead.

And that's the thing—all of me could be dead, and I wouldn't know. I spent so long trying to be someone he'd want that I can't remember who I was before I met him. At some point, I ceased to exist as my own person—and you can't love someone who doesn't exist.

That'ss why I didn't let you kiss me. It wasn't that I don't want you; I do. How could I not? You're funny, gorgeous, smart—you're the best friend I've ever had. I wanted nothing more than for you to carry me off to bed and remind me why I love sex so much. What I don't want is for you to fall in love with me. As amazing as you are, I don't think I could ever return your feelings. There's nothing left in me to give.

If you want to me to find a new place to live, I understand. Just know that I don't want to be anywhere else.

Izzy

**-o-O-o-**

I no longer wonder what I should do, nor question my ability to go through with it. I head into the kitchen and dial Carlisle's cell. When he answers, I don't waste time with small talk.

"You need to come over right now," I say. "There's something I need to tell you."


	26. Jack Daniels, Straight Up

_Thanks to LJ Summers and wime for their input._

_And to giselle-lx, for letting me borrow the family she invented for Carlisle in _Stregoni.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**Jack Daniels, Straight-Up**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

**December 21, 1996**

Our ornaments this year are every bit as MacGuyver'd as they were last year, but the result is beautiful regardless. I meant to use tonight to finish the afghan I'm making Edward for Christmas, but the tree's soft glow is mesmerizing enough that I find myself focusing on that rather than than the half-made blanket on my lap. Now that we have an actual bedroom, I can't spend the time it takes me to fall asleep staring at the flickering lights of the Christmas tree.

It makes me feel ungrateful to admit it, but I miss the intimacy of his old apartment. Though our relationship no longer is relegated to weekends, I see less of him now than I did before we moved in together. This apartment is nothing like his studio was—it's much larger and is very close to my campus. The extra rooms sound great at first. Then we move in, and soon I realize rooms have nothing to do with space and everything to do with walls. If there's one thing I don't need, it's any more walls between Edward and me.

I tell myself I'm being silly, that he's no more emotionally distant than he was before we moved here. But when he's not at school, he's usually in his study with the door closed. It doesn't matter that he's on the other side of the apartment and that I could get him if I need him—I feel completely alone. I wonder if maybe it was too much, too soon—that despite all the school breaks we spent playing house, we weren't ready for the reality of long-term cohabitation. True though it may be, I don't dare tell him this. The last thing I need is for him to have further evidence of my immaturity.

When the front door creaks, I shove the yet-to-be-completed afghan under my ass in a pathetic attempt to keep it a surprise. He goes directly into his study, and for a moment, I'm relieved he doesn't notice it. Then I realize he hasn't noticed me, either.

**-o-O-o-**

**November 30, 2009**

"This had better be good, Izzy."

My chest is sticky from the armagnac that soaked my shirt when Carlisle startled me. "Goddamn it. You scared the shit out of me." I reach for a kitchen towel and attempt to blot myself dry. When it doesn't work, I twist the towel and whack him with it. "You can't just walk right into my apartment. I don't care if you have a key—fucking knock."

"I_ did _knock; you must not have heard it over your stereo." Laughing, he raises his hands in self-defense. "First, you call me sounding psychotic and insist I come right over. When I show up you're blasting Portishead, whom you hate. I bang on your door, and you don't answer. I thought you were hurt or something."

"That's not the point." I hit him again. "I could have been naked."

"But you aren't."

His eyes are downcast. If I had boobs, I'd think he was staring at them.

"What are you looking at?"

He points to my chest, and I look down. Only then do I realize my alcohol-soaked top leaves nothing to the imagination. Except it's Carlisle, and he doesn't have to_ imagine_ anything. He's already seen, squeezed, stroked, and sucked everything I have. Meanwhile, I'm dating his brother.

"I'm going to die," I mutter to myself. "Or maybe puke."

"You will not." His laughter intensifies. "Besides, if you're dead, you can't puke."

"First, I'm going to puke; then, I'm going to die."

"Why?"

"You've seen my boobs!"

"Not recently, though your shirt is a bit see-through at the moment." His eyes widen in exaggerated realization. "Wait!" He raises his hand and snaps his fingers. "I think I finally get it! You're going to a wet t-shirt contest and need me to be your bodyguard."

I fold my arms across my chest. "That's ridiculous."

"I know, right? I mean, you have to realize you don't have a prayer of winning."

"Fuck you." I whack him with the towel once more before leaving the kitchen. "I'll be back as soon as I'm decent. Why don't you pour yourself a drink?"

"I don't have all night."

"Trust me," I call from my bedroom. "You need a drink for this."

After I throw on a clean shirt, I remind myself I have no choice but to do this—that he'll be more upset if I don't tell him than he'll be when I do. I take a deep breath, then go back to the kitchen. His back is to me as he pours himself some armagnac. I'm about to blurt it out. Then he turns around, and I lose my nerve. I lean against the wall, sighing.

"This would be so much easier if my phone were still working. Then I could just let you see it."

"I swear," he says, shaking his head. "If you dragged me all the way out here to show me porn–"

I roll my eyes. "If only."

"Would you tell me why the hell I'm here?"

"I'm working up to it! In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of flipping out here. I mean, I was shocked enough to destroy my phone–"

He snorts. "As if _that's_ anything out of the ordinary."

"What are you talking about?"

"Keeping your emotions under control has never been your strong suit." He raises his glass to his lips, but rather than take a sip, he uncurls his index finger and points at me. "Remember the time–"

"I know who your father is." The moment the words leave my lips, I collapse against the counter. "I'm sorry to blurt it out like that, but–"

"Wait, what? That's what has you worked up?" He laughs. "You know I don't give two shits about him."

"You would if you knew who he was."

"You're right—I'd hate him. But since I have no idea who he is, I can be apathetic, which is healthier."

"I know. I wasn't going to tell you. Then I reread this..." I point to the letter on the counter. "And I knew I couldn't not–"

"What does _he_ have to do with this?"

"Everything."

"I know what you're thinking, Izzy." If he's at all upset, it doesn't show.

"Do you?" I'm surprised and relieved. If he's figured it out for himself, I don't have to struggle with finding the necessary courage or the right words.

"He's not my father."

"But your mother–"

Groaning, he runs his free hand through his hair, then places his glass on the counter. He fills a tumbler with water and hands it to me.

"Drink this."

"I'm not drunk," I insist.

"Drink it anyway."

I don't take orders from Carlisle, but tonight I make an exception. I chug the water and place the now-empty glass in the sink.

"Let me explain this to you." He rests his hands on my shoulders. "I'm older than Edward, therefore it's impossible for him to be my dad. It just doesn't work that way. You should go to bed–"

"I already have..."

"Right. Uh..."

"...with _both_ of you! It makes me feel like such a slut to tell you this, but you _have_ to know–"

"Whoa." He waves his palms at me. "I'm married, Iz. Esme is my life, and I'm not comfortable with where this conversation is going. As much as I love you–"

"I love your brother."

"What the fuck did you do, drop acid before I got here? I don't _have_ a brother."

"No, baby—you _do_. This is what I'm trying to tell you. You have a brother and a sister. Though you've never met them, that's going to change in a couple of weeks when Edward and Alice come for the holidays. This is why I had to tell you. You'd have figured it out for yourself after a minute of you all being in the same room."

"A minute, huh? If that's all I'd need, how come it took you _ten years _to figure this out?"

"You've always reminded me of him. That's why it was so easy for me to be with you–"

"Because I remind you of the guy who treated you like shit for four years? Are you fucking serious?"

"Would you please keep it down?" My eyes are wet when I rub them. "I can't handle you yelling at me."

For a while, there's silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. "I don't know what put this in your head, but you're wrong."

"Carlisle–"

"No. Let's put this to rest once an for all." Turning away from me, he pulls his phone from his pocket and starts pushing buttons. Holding it against his ear, he closes his eyes, sighing. "Sorry to wake you, Ma...No, nothing's wrong—I mean, it's nothing you can't fix. I'm at Izzy's and..." He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "I hate to even bother you with this, but... What? No, I haven't seen the picture on Izzy's phone. What does that have to do with anything?" His eyes fly open; his posture straightens. "No. I mean, it can't..."

The volume on his earpiece is high enough that I can Sarah talking even if I can't make out her actual words.

"I don't want to hear anymore." Shaking his head, he ends the call.

He's unnaturally calm, and I wonder if maybe he's in shock.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Letting out a sound that's something between a groan and a wail, he throws his phone onto the floor, stomping on it repeatedly until there's nothing left to break.

His eyes are wet when they meet mine. "Do you have any Jack?"

I nod.

"Just bring me the bottle."


	27. 1995 Chateau Lafite Rothschild

**Chapter ****Twenty****-****Six**

**1995 ****Chateau ****Lafite****-****Rothschild ****Premier ****Grand ****Cru ****Classe ****Pauillac**

* * *

**January**** 30, 1997**

"I don't get it, Izzy." Alice leans against the back of the booth, folding her arms across her chest. "What's so difficult about choosing a major?"

I sip my Diet Coke in a pathetic attempt to buy myself enough time to come up with an answer that will sound better than the truth. When I return it to the table in front of me, I'm no more prepared than I was before.

"I want to major in French," I tell her.

"Then why haven't you just declared? Get it over with; you'll have one less thing to worry about."

Except she's wrong—once this decision is made, several others take its place. Declaring a major means nothing if I have no idea what I want to do with it once I finish college. I'm not sure why having a major means I need a life plan, but it does. Meanwhile, I _don't_. I may not know what want to do when I graduate, but I know what I don't want to do when I go home tonight—look Edward in the eye and tell him I'm no closer to having my future figured out now than I was the day I told him my life's goal was for him to kiss me. At least, that's how he'd see it. In reality, there's one thing I have figured out since then—I want to spend forever with him.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

**November**** 30, 2009**

"I guess you've met him?"

"Who?"

"My..." He stops, shaking his head. "I don't even know how to refer to him. William? Mr. Cullen? That lying motherfucker?"

When I snort, Carlisle gives me the Look of Death.

"Sorry." I've been meeting each of his gulps of Jack with a comparably-sized sip of armagnac in hopes it would make this conversation less painful. I now know it's a waste of alcohol—I doubt there's anything in the world that could make this less painful.

"What does Senator Cullen call him?"

"Sir."

"Seriously?"

I nod. "Lying motherfucker is an endearment typically reserved for special occasions."

"So if Senator Cullen–"

"His name is Edward."

"I'm aware of that."

"Then why won't you say it?"

"Using his first name implies he and I have a personal relationship."

My eyes shift from one side to the other. "Uh, you kind of do."

"We do not."

"You're _related_."

"That doesn't mean I'm planning to have anything to do with him."

I slide off my chair and kneel in front of him. When he turns his head, I know what he's trying to do. I also know it doesn't make a difference—whether or not he witnesses my mouth produce the words, they're no less true.

"I love him, Carlisle." I rest my hands on his knees. "Please, look at me."

His eyes meet mine, and he sighs.

"I love him, but I love you, too. And I don't care if you pursue a fraternal relationship with him or not—that's up to the two of you. You're my best friend in the world, and I don't know what I'd do if you were unwilling to acknowledge his place in my life. He's not going anywhere."

"So he says."

"I left him, remember?"

"I do, Iz. But I also remember _why_." He raises the bottle of Jack to his lips and finishes it off. Rather than put it down, he grips it so tightly that his knuckles are white.

I angle my head toward the bottle. "You can let go, you know."

His laughter is bitter. "Easier said than done."

"Why? There's nothing left. Not only does it not help at all, but if you refocused that energy into something positive..." I shrug. "I mean, I know this is a shock to you, but you can't exactly change it. None of this is Edward's fault."

"Is this where you tell me smiling uses fewer muscles than frowning?"

I ignore the fact he's mocking me. "Would it help if I did?"

"No. We both know flipping someone off requires the least effort of all."

I'm smiling as I give him the finger. This time, his laughter is real.

"I want to hug you, but..."

"There's a condition?"

"You have to let it go."

Sighing, he places the bottle on the floor. I sit beside him and put my arm around him. He trembles against me; I know he's begun to cry.

I know nothing I say will comfort him, so I do what he's spent the past ten years doing for me. I hold Carlisle as he sobs, all the while hoping he realizes how much I love him.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

**December**** 11, 2009**

"They ordered _what_?"

I look at Alec in disbelief. He's one of the most seasoned waiters we have on staff; he knows procedure.

"The 1995 Chateau Lafite."

"Why didn't you send me to the table?"

"I offered. He said it wasn't necessary, that he knew what he wanted."

I put my tastevin around my neck and rise from my desk chair, sighing. "Ugh. And my night was going so well."

Laughing, he follows me out of the wine cellar.

"Let me guess," I say, wiggling my pinky as we climb the stairs to the dining room. "One of these?"

The man I'll find sitting at the table in question is one of two types. He's either the kind who orders one of the most expensive bottles we stock, not out of an appreciation for fine wine but to call attention to the size of what he has in his pants. It's safe to assume that if his dick were anywhere near the size of his wallet, he'd have made a different selection. The other possibility is that he is a wine lover—but he's also a misogynistic asshole who can't stomach the thought of a female sommelier. I always bust out the tastevin to serve patrons like that. For some reason, chauvinists seem to respect tastevins as much as they do testicles.

After buttoning my suit jacket at the entrance to the dining room, I check my appearance in one of the mirrors. The tastevin isn't the only thing that distinguishes me from the servers. They dress identically regardless of gender, whereas I'm given more freedom with my attire. I tend to wear knee-length pencil skirts that have a bit of stretch. They set me apart from the rest of the waitstaff without impeding me from performing my job. Satisfied with how I look, I follow Alec to the table in question.

"Monsieur, this is Isabella, our sommelier." Alec steps to the side, gesturing to me.

The moment I see the patron in question, my fake smile becomes real.

"Thank you," I say, acknowledging Alec with a nod. Now free to attend to his other duties, he hurries off, leaving me to attend to mine. The vision before me is even more fabulous than I remember—the red hair, the chin cleft, the bespoke suit I want to see crumpled on my bedroom floor. Fuck the Lafite; I want _him_ on my tongue.

I tell myself to focus. How many times have I dreamed of this moment? This is my chance to wow him.

"Senator Cullen! Good evening and _bienvenue __a __Un __Souvenir __Lèger_. I trust your experience dining with us has been pleasant so far?"

"Very much so, thank you."

"Alec tells me you've requested the 1995 Chateau Lafite Rothschild."

"Yes."

"Your taste in wine is excellent, Senator."

"I'm hardly an expert, but it's my understanding 1995 was a great year for Lafite." He doesn't even try to be discreet about the fact he's checking out my body. "By now, I imagine it—among other things—has aged to perfection."

Oh my god. I'm thirty-two years old, but I might as well be eighteen. I want nothing more than to sit on his lap and lick him. Then I remember we've yet to go public and somehow I manage to restrain myself. Maintaining a professional demeanor as I discuss the menu is almost impossible, but miraculously I'm able to do so. Then he goes _there_.

"How do you feel about the cock?"

"Cock?" I repeat, certain I misheard him.

"Yes, cock."

Bye-bye brain-to-mouth filter! Though our affair was brief, it's been nice knowing you.

"Whose cock?"

"The one here..." He pauses, nodding toward his lap. "Obviously."

Oh my god. He's come to torture me.

"Though it's been some time since I've tasted that particular variety, I recall it being quite good."

"And the meat on the bone? Is it the kind that melts in your mouth?"

"It always has in the past, yes."

My face may be on fire, but he's as poised as he always is.

"In that case, I'll have the cock."

"Are you certain, Senator?" I ask, believing I misheard him. "Though my memory might be failing me, as far as I know, the cock isn't to your liking."

"True. However, I'm told the _coq __au __vin_ here is the best in Chicago." Leaning forward, he adds in a whisper, "Did you think I was referring to something else?"

"Of course not," I lie. "_That _has never been on the menu. As you know, that kind of cock is hardly a light-hearted memory. If anything, it's quite...substantial."

"Yet you like to eat it?"

Oh, two can play at this game.

"Yes. I daresay it's my favorite source of protein. Do you have any other questions for me, Senator?"

"Yes, actually. Do you always wear skirts and heels to work?"

"I meant with regard to the menu," I say, laughing. I'll answer his other question eventually—but only after I've stripped him naked.

"No. Thank you, Isabella. You've been more than thorough."

His smile as I step away from the table is one I know well; it's what I see in his eyes that's new. When I realize what it is, it takes my breath away.

He's proud of me.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

Part of Esme's vision when she opened _Un __Souvenir __Lèger_ was to make wine an integral part of the dining experience. When a patron orders a particularly special bottle, Esme joins me at the table when I serve it. It's a win for all parties involved—the person who ordered the wine enjoys receiving personal attention from the executive chef, and Esme is treated to a taste.

It's hard to describe the extent of my elation as I walk to the kitchen to find Esme. On second thought, maybe walking isn't the right word. My legs may be carry me forward, but there's a definite spring to my step. I'd say I was floating and, though it captures the appropriate weightlessness, it doesn't do anything to convey my bounciness. When Esme sees what I'm doing, she looks at me as if I have two heads.

"You're skipping?"

I can't control my giggle. "I suppose I am."

"_Why_ are you skipping?"

"I'm about to open our one and only bottle of 1995 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "Opening comparable bottles has never made you skip before."

"Wait until you find out who ordered it."

"Do we have a VIP?" Her eyes sparkle with excitement. "Oh my god, who?"

That's when I realized I fucked up. I open my mouth to tell Esme she doesn't have to join me at the table when I present the bottle, that Edward will understand how awkward that is given the fact she's married to his illegitimate half-brother. Then I remember he doesn't know.

Edward doesn't know because I didn't want to tell him over the phone.

"Shit fuck jizz grandma sodomite," I mutter under my breath.

"So who ordered the Lafite?" she asks, laughing. "Your sexually promiscuous, homosexual grandmother?"

"No. It was my boyfriend. And I realize I'm an ass for springing this on you, but I totally forgot he and Carlisle are...you _know_...because I was so wrapped up in the way Edward makes me happy in my pants. If you don't want to do this, I'll make something up–"

"Give me two minutes to freshen up, and I'll meet you in the wine cellar."

"Are you sure? I mean, you don't have to–"

"Yes, I do. I'm not going to lie, Iz. I'm worried about him hurting you. But if he means that much to you..."

"He does."

She reaches out and squeezes my hand. "You introduced me to the love of my life. The least I can do is allow you to introduce me to the love of yours."

If only it were that simple.

"You don't–"

"Shush! Another protest from you, and I'll fire your ass."

I know better than to argue with her. I skip my way back to the wine cellar, all the while wondering how I got so lucky.


	28. Cognac

-O-

**Thank ****you ****to ****Books ****and ****Linsey****.**

**And ****Jessi****, ****for ****talking ****me down from ****the ****cliff****. **

**Happy ****belated ****birthday****, ****Caren****. **

**Your ****present ****is ****coming****, ****and ****it **_**will **_**involve ****Bella ****and ****Carlisle****.**

* * *

**Chapter****Twenty****-****Seven**

**Cognac**

* * *

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

**May**** 21, 1998**

Mr. Cullen's presence isn't off-putting as I recall from Edward's birthday. At first I think it has to do with the occasion—that even _he_ isn't so much of a dick to be unaffected by his son's graduation from law school. Then I realize the change in his demeanor has more to do with Alice's presence than Edward's accomplishment. For every critical glance he tosses Edward's way, there's a proud smile directed toward his daughter. The difference in the way he treats his two children is so profound it makes me wonder why Alice has never mentioned it.

Before joining the rest of his class, Edward pulls me into his arms and brushes his lips against mine. It's the most demonstrative he's ever been in the presence of his father and, even though it ends the second it begins, it's significant. I expect him to step away from me, but he doesn't. Instead, we stand forehead-to-forehead with our fingers entwined.

"Are you nervous?" he asks.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Thinking he may be teasing me, I take a step back and look at his face. There's no smile, just a whole lot of tension. I feel as if it's my fault he's stressed out at the thought of leaving me alone with his family. I want him to enjoy this—to bask in his accomplishment without fearing what could come out of my mouth if his father says something I find offensive.

"Alice is here, too, you know," I say. "I'll be fine."

"I wasn't worried about you."

I'm not sure what he means, but everything that comes to mind is equally hurtful in different ways. I want to ask for clarification, but I don't. If I allow my issues to pull the focus from what should be, I'd be no better than his father.

Mr. Cullen doesn't linger after the ceremony. He allows Alice to take a single picture of him standing beside Edward then makes some excuse about a pressing business matter. That it's complete bullshit is obvious to everyone but Alice. For the briefest of moments, Edward doesn't bother to hide his disappointment. Wanting to give him comfort but painfully aware of his discomfort with PDAs, I brush my fingertips lightly across his back. The next thing I know, he's trying to fit me inside his robe. With the shutter of Alice's camera clicking away in the background, he holds me tightly against him, seemingly oblivious to everything around us.

"Thank you," he whispers. "I know this has been hard on you, that you've been lonely and frustrated. I'm not sure if I can ever make it up to you, but I know I'm going to try."

I may not have been one of today's graduates, but I leave the ceremony feeling as if I I'd gotten top honors.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

**December**** 11, 2009**

If I weren't close with Esme outside of work, I wouldn't know it was her. The woman walking into the wine cellar looks nothing like the one I left in the kitchen. Her formerly-restrained hair falls past her shoulders in loose, warm-brown corkscrew curls, and she's traded in her chef coat and slip-resistant, steel-toed shoes for her "emergency little black dress" and an exquisite pair of vintage-looking, blue silk ankle boots.

It's not as if I've never seen her done up like this—Esme excels at presentation when it comes to just about everything. It's just not like her to do this at work. In the past when VIPs have dined with us, Esme would go into the dining room straight from the kitchen and introduce herself as the executive chef. If the patron in question were to comment on the food stains on her coat, she'd liken her clothing to a painter's smock and proceed to detail which items from the menu caused each splatter. Her audience has always listened with rapt attention. Though she thinks it's because she's so enthusiastic about the menu, I know better. Americans go crazy for French accents, and though hers is very faint, it's there nonetheless.

"Stop it," she says.

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me that way! When you give me that look I get self-conscious, when I'm self-conscious I get clumsy, and everything from the soufflé to the executive chef falls flat."

"If you're that nervous..." I point to her shoes. "What's up with the heels?"

"I like to feel tall when I meet new people. Besides, these are hotter than kitchen clogs. See?" She lifts one foot off the ground, flexing it at the ankle. The jet beads on the black tulle-covered toe of her shoe catch the light, creating a subtle shimmer. "Anyway, regardless of how pretentious it makes me feel, Carlisle would want me to introduce myself as the owner."

"Why would that make you feel pretentious? I mean, you _are _the owner."

"Not really."

"Just the other day you were saying what's yours is his and vice-versa."

"I was talking about recipes, best friends, and half-siblings we never knew existed. Carlisle may not be ready to meet our brother, but I am."

I throw my arms around her; I can't help it. "Thank you."

"Okay." She pats my back before stepping away. "Give me the details. Is there anything I should know before we go upstairs?"

I think for a moment. "He'll probably be in politician mode."

"So don't believe a word he says?"

"Not like that," I say, laughing. "It's just when he's out in public, his manners are very formal. I don't think he realizes how cold it makes him seem."

"Got it." She gestures to the door. "Ready when you are."

Bearing the Lafite, we make our way upstairs. When Edward's table is in view, Esme stops walking. After letting out a quiet gasp, she wraps her hand around my wrist.

"Seriously?" she whispers, angling her head toward his table.

"What's wrong?"

"You failed to mention how much better looking he is in person."

Laughing, I gesture for Alec to bring a decanter. By the time the three of us arrive at Edward's table, I haven't entirely composed myself. Thankfully, Esme takes the lead. The moment she begins speaking, he stands.

"Bon soir, Senator, et bien venue á _Un __Souvenir __Léger_. I'm Esme Platt Crawforth, part-owner and executive chef." She extends her hand to him. "It's a honor to have you dining with us this evening."

"Please," he says, shaking her hand. "Call me Edward."

"1995 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild." With one hand under the bottle and the other on its neck, I present the wine for his approval.

After a cursory glance at the label, he nods. "Thank you."

I retrieve my knife from my pocket and cut away the foil from the neck of the bottle. Alec hands me the decanter then picks up the already-lit candle from the center of the table and places it in front of me. With the soft glow of the candlelight illuminating the bottle neck, I'm able to pour the wine into the decanter in such a way that ensures any sediment produced in the aging process remains in the bottle. When I'm finished, Alec returns the candle to its original location and takes the now-empty bottle from my hands, replacing it with a glass.

I'm about to pour when the shimmer of my tastevin catches my eye. I haven't used it since the night I received my Master Sommelier Diploma. Feeling that tonight will be equally significant, I put the glass down and pour a small sample of the Lafite into my tastevin. With my eyes closed, I savor its bouquet. Earthy and smoky with hints of licorice and blackberry, it's a pleasure to inhale. When I finally taste, its palate is just as I recall. Elegant and restrained, it promises to exceed whatever expectations Edward may have—provided he gives it the time it needs to open.

"Lovely." When I open my eyes, I see something in his I can't identify, but it's intense and makes it hard for me to remain professional. In a pathetic attempt to buy myself a moment to refocus, I say what I'd say to any restaurant patron after opening a special bottle. "You made an excellent choice."

He shrugs. "I came here knowing what I wanted."

"Ideally, it should decant for two hours, but if you have difficulty waiting—"

"I don't."

"If you change your mind—" Esme begins.

"I won't..." He pauses, then flashes Esme _that _smile. "However, if you're not too busy, I'd love some company."

Knowing she'd like him if she knew him, I answer on her behalf. "She'd love to."

I hurry to the kitchen, watching them out of the corner of my eye. She smiles as she takes her seat in the chair he pulled out for her. I don't have to wonder what she's thinking; it's written all over her face.

She approves. One down, one to go.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

When Esme rejoins me in the wine cellar, she doesn't talk about her dinner with Edward. She doesn't talk at all. Sitting in the chair facing my desk with her elbow propped on an armrest and her chin in her hand, she seems lost in thought. As much as I want to ask her to dish, I don't. It wouldn't work if I did—this is one area in which she and I are nothing alike. She doesn't speak without thinking, and she'd never offer an opinion without being sure. Needing to take the edge off, I pour us both some cognac.

Right away, she takes a sip. "I was expecting the guy I've seen guy on the news—never in a million years did I think I'd actually like him. I should have known better, considering how often you've said Carlisle reminds you of him."

"There's nothing not to like...well...besides his unfortunate tendency to put his political ambition before everything else in his life."

"Present company included—and that's the problem." She uncrosses her legs and leans forward. "Look, I have no doubt Carlisle will get over the half-brother thing. His anger will wear itself out, and he'll realize Edward is no more responsible for his father's behavior than he is for Sarah's. As much as Carlisle loves his mother, he knows she's far from blameless. You, on the other hand..."

"I'm not blameless, either."

"As far as Carlisle is concerned, you may as well be."

As much I want to contradict her, I don't. I'm too afraid she's right.

"Anyway," she continues, "why are you still here? Edward's upstairs waiting for you."

I'm out of the wine the cellar with the speed of a champagne cork.

"Let me know how it goes," she calls after me.

"What, you want a blow-by-blow of the blowing?"

"I meant breaking the news to him, you perv."

My shins are the first to slam into the wooden staircase, followed quickly my palms and my knees.

"Motherfucking rim-job breath!"

"Are you all right?" Esme rushes over and helps me to my feet. "Did you trip on something?"

"Only my sense of foreboding."

I make my way up the remaining steps silently chanting _I __think __I __can__. _The second I see him, I know I have no choice but to cease thinking of myself as The Little Engine Who Could and instead be The Bottom-Heavy Girlfriend Who Has No Choice. I adjust my mantra accordingly. _I __know __I __must_ isn't as catchy, but it reminds me wussing out is not an option.

"Come on," he says, taking my hand. "I have a car waiting."

He leads me outside where we're immediately ushered into a black sedan with darkly tinted windows. The moment the driver closes the door, Edward pulls me into his arms. His hands are everywhere as we kiss, and as much as I love how he's making me feel, I know if I don't stop him I'll get sidetracked.

"Sorry I kept you waiting."

"I thought we went through this earlier. Where you're concerned, I have infinite patience. For example..." He drags his hand up my thigh. "As much as I want to spend the holidays_ in_ you, I'd be content to spend them with you."

"So if there was something I needed to tell you..."

"Is something wrong?"

"Not necessarily wrong...just..." I lean back into the seat, sighing. "Shit, this is harder than I thought it would be."

"You're making me nervous–"

"Esme likes you."

"It's mutual—she's fascinating. Now that I've spent some time with her, I'm really looking forward to meeting Carlisle."

"Good!" I say a bit too enthusiastically. "Hopefully, that won't change after I tell you..."

"Damn it, Bella, would you please just–"

"He's your brother."

Squeezing the oh-shit bar, I brace myself for whatever comes next.

* * *

**It's been a while, I know. Thanks for staying with me. **


	29. Jack Daniels II

I don't own _Twilight._

Thanks to Books, LJ Summers, and my right brain, who is also known as Regina.

**-o-O-o-**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

**Jack Daniels (II)**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

**June 1, 1998**

"The master of arts in comparative literature?" Alice turns from my computer and looks at me, her face forming an expression which seems to indicate her desire for me to elaborate.

"Just something my advisor suggested I look at. You can close the browser window."

"I didn't know you were thinking about grad school."

That's the thing—I think all the time. The problem is that I'm no closer to knowing what I want to do than I was when I was a freshman three years ago.

"There are a few programs she feels would be a good fit for me. I mean, it's more or less been my field of study. I've completed the necessary coursework. If my GREs fall into the right range..." I shrug. "I'm just starting to research it all."

"You don't seem too enthusiastic."

"I love the idea of studying literature and delving more deeply into foreign languages. I'm not sure what I'd do when I graduate besides get a Ph.D. I don't really see myself teaching. Add to that the required time studying abroad..."

"Right." She rolls her eyes. "Because it's so terrible to be forced to spend some time in Europe."

When Edward was talking about going with me, there was nothing I wanted more. Then he accepted a two-year clerkship with a federal judge, making it impossible for him to go anywhere with me unless I take a year off while he finishes his obligations.

"Seeing Paris by myself doesn't appeal to me—not at all." I leave out how doubtful I am that my relationship with Edward could survive that kind of separation. Though I may not know what I want to do with my life, I know I want to spend it with him.

"You're going to apply anyway, right? Who knows? In the next few months, you could change your mind."

"Oh, I'm definitely applying."

I don't think my mind will change, but I haven't given up hope his mind will.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 11, 2009**

Lifting his hand from my leg, Edward moves as far away from me as the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car will permit.

"It's seems unbelievable, I know–"

"So Carlisle was in Fly Club at Harvard? Small world. In that case, you're right—we are brothers. It's quite possible we've already met. Do you know what year he graduated?" Angling his head toward the driver, he rotates his arm at the elbow in a silent request for me to go along with it.

If there's one thing living with Edward taught me, it's the importance of keeping lies as vague as possible.

"Uh, sometime in the nineties? He's a little older than you–"

"How long have you known we had the same fa–uh–affiliation?"

"A few weeks."

"Ah." He doesn't touch me or talk to me for the rest of the drive.

For a while I stare at him, but the blank expression on his face makes me uncomfortable, so I turn andlook out my window. As the city lights flash by, I brace myself for the inevitable meltdown I suspect will occur the moment we're alone.

Except it doesn't.

Once inside my apartment, I hang up our coats and strip off my suit jacket. With each second he spends standing frozen in place with his luggage at his feet, my anxiety increases tenfold. Needing to do something, I pour him a double shot of Jack, which he downs. He hands me the empty glass then claps his hands together in front of his chest.

"Why don't you give me a tour?"

It's the last thing I expected him to say.

"Seriously?"

He shrugs. "If I'm going to be staying here for the next few weeks, it would be helpful to know where everything is."

For a moment, I think maybe he misheard what I said in the car—or at the very least, failed to grasp the meaning of my words. Then I remember his Harvard Final Club ruse and the way his demeanor changed after asking me how long I've known. Assuming he needs some more time to process everything, I decide not to push.

"Okay." I head toward the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow me. "It's really not all that big."

When there's no evidence of movement behind me, I look over my shoulder. Edward is standing exactly where I left him, his eyes fixated on a photo of Carlisle, Esme, and me hanging on the wall of my foyer.

"Were you a bridesmaid?"

"Excuse me?"

"I could be wrong, but I assumed this was taken at their wedding..."

"No, you're right—it was."

"So were you a bridesmaid?"

"Oh," I say, finally understanding. "No, I was Carlisle's best man."

His intake of breath is audible, and though his eyes widen, he still doesn't look at me. I open my mouth to ask if he's angry I didn't tell him right away, but close it before any sound comes out, too afraid of what his answer will be.

"I..." He shakes his head, sighing. "He looks more like my father than I do."

Time passes; I'm not sure how much. When he finally turns to me, he's wearing the same smile he wore through most of his Senatorial campaign.

Even then, I knew it was fake.

"Never mind that," he says, "I'd like to see where you cook, as well as where you'd like me to sleep."

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"Cooking? Sure. I don't think sleeping would make an interesting topic of conversation."

"You know what I mean."

"Actually, I don't."

"That Carlisle is your brother."

"There isn't much to say about that."

"You're awfully calm about this."

"I already knew he existed." He shrugged. "Now would you please show me where you'd like me to sleep? It's been a rough day..."

"You didn't feel that way an hour ago."

"Fine. It's been a rough hour. The end result is the same regardless; I'm worn out and need it to be over with."

I close my eyes, sighing. "This is exactly what I was afraid of."

"What? That I wouldn't feel like staying up all night?"

"That you'd go off somewhere–"

"What are you talking about? I'm right here–"

"Then what's with all this where-you-would-like-me-to-sleep bullshit? You know where I want you–"

"Is that what all this is about?" He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it to the couch. Seconds later, his tie, shirt, and belt follow suit. "All you had to do was ask."

He storms down the hallway, but I count to ten before following. I find him in my bedroom, barefoot and stepping out of his pants.

"This isn't going to work."

He looks at his crotch then back at me, a smug smile on his face. "Sure it will—it just needs some time to warm up. The sooner you take off your clothes, the sooner it'll be ready to go."

"No."

"What, would you rather I do it for you?"

"Please, Edward. Just...stop."

"What?" He throws up his hands, shrugging. "God damn it, Bella! What the hell do you want from me?"

"You! But this time, you can't hold anything back."

"Fine." He pulls my shirt from the waistband of my skirt and rips it open.

Before I can protest, his tongue is in my mouth. He moves forward; I stumble backward. My bra is off, my back's against the wall, and his kiss is greedy almost to the point it's violent. I'm dizzy and wet. My body wants this more than anything.

His mouth slides across my cheek to my earlobe, licking and sucking, grazing my skin with his teeth. I don't notice my skirt is bunched up around my hips until his thumbs are inside the waistband of my tights, pulling them down to my knees.

"I need you," he says.

"You've always had me."

He uses his foot to push my tights to the floor, and it's as if Thanksgiving never happened. The past fourteen years haven't happened. I may as well be eighteen years old, standing in an alley in a blue dress that makes me feel like a whore, willing to do whatever he thinks will make him feel better. Except I now know what he wants won't work—that he can spend the rest of his life fucking me against walls, but it will never knock down the ones he's built up around himself.

"But I've never had you." With my hand on his chest, I gently push him away. "At least, not all of you..."

"I don't understand," he says.

I study his face; his eyes and cheeks are red, and though I realize he's probably drunk, I don't let it stop me.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"You're unbelievable." He shakes his head. "Fine then. You really want to know?"

"Yes."

He hides his face with his hands, and when he lowers them, his intelligible groan becomes a roar. "I'm god-damned furious!"

"At?"

"My father. You. Myself. Mostly myself."

"Why at yourself?"

"For letting you two have all the power!"

He falls to the floor, pulling me with him. Though his sobs are violent, Each time I try to put my arm around him, he pushes me away. It isn't until his rage subsides to his grief that I dare try to touch him again. After a while, he actually lets me.


	30. Sam Adams Cherry Wheat

**I don't own Twilight. **

**Thanks to Books, LJ Summers, Detochkina, and Ashley. **

* * *

**Chapter ****Twenty****-****Nine**

**Sam ****Adams ****Cherry ****Wheat**

* * *

**April**** 20, 1999**

"I still think you're out of your mind," Alice says, fumbling with her keys. "I mean, given the choice between staying in a friend's dorm room and staying in your own apartment..."

"Except it's technically Edward's apartment—kind of the way this is _technically_ my dorm room."

My financial aid package is set up in such a way that I'd lose scholarship money if I lived off-campus. As far as the university and my parents are concerned, I never stopped rooming with Alice.

She rolls her eyes as she pushes the door open. "Only the latter part of that statement is true, you know."

I follow her inside, kicking the door closed behind me. "How do you figure? It's not as if I pay rent or anything."

"Only because he won't let you."

"Maybe." I kick off my shoes, wanting nothing more than for us to get into our beds and talk for hours, the way we did before I moved in with Edward. Except Alice arranged the two extra-long twin beds in such a way they formed a single king-sized one, and I'm not sure which part is meant for me.

"Where do I...?" I gesture to the bed.

"It doesn't matter."

When I flop onto the side of the bed that would be mine if I were at Edward's, Alice looks at me as if I have two heads.

"What?" I ask.

She sits at the foot of the bed, folding her legs beneath her. "Tell me why you're really here."

"I needed a little more of this..." I flip my hand from me to her and back again. "...before it's all over."

"I didn't realize things had gotten that bad between the two of you. I mean, I knew you were having some problems. I'm sorry, Izzy. I know how he gets, the way he just kind of withdraws into himself—he's done it for as long as I can remember. He won't let anyone in when he gets like that—not even me. I wish there were some way I could help–"

"Things are fine between Edward and me." It's the biggest lie I've ever told her, but I don't feel as if I have a choice.

I want to spill all of it—to tell her how he's almost never home and when he is, he barely talks to me. That his mood shifts are so dramatic it sometimes seems like there are two very different men inhabiting one body and I'm never sure which one I'll get. That I don't understand how he can profess to love me when he acts as if he's ashamed of me. Alice may be my best friend, but she's also Edward's sister. I love her too much to put her in the middle like that—even if it leaves me with no one to confide in.

"I meant that we're graduating next month, and who knows where we'll end up..."

"Oh my god!" Her eyes widen above the hand clapped over her mouth. "You were accepted into grad school, weren't you?"

"Kind of."

"Izzy, it's a yes-or-no question."

"And in this instance, both answers are applicable. Columbia said no; Harvard said yes."

She bounces on the bed, shrieking. "That's so amazing–"

"I've already declined."

"You what? Why?"

"Harvard doesn't offer a master's in comparative literature—just a Ph.D. Edward's more tied to DC than ever, so who knows when he'd be able to move to Boston with me." I shrug. "Given the choice, I'd rather be with him."

"Has he said he wouldn't move? I mean, he's lived in Boston before and loved it. For something this important to you, I know he'd seriously consider it. If you asked–"

"And _he__'__s_ important enough to me that I'd never consider asking!"

"Oh, Izzy." She shakes her head, sighing.

"Go ahead and say it—you think I'm a dumbass."

"No. I'm just afraid you'll regret this."

"Are these normal concerns, or are we having another Psychic Friends Network moment?"

She lowers her gaze to the bedspread. "Stop it."

"I'm serious, Alice. Are we talking about a hunch or one of your infamous gut feelings?"

Her eyes are intense, and I think I'll start crying if she keeps looking at me like that. Needing to break the tension, I pick up the Magic 8-Ball she has on her nightstand.

"Aren't you always saying the oracle is truth? Let's see if it thinks I'll regret not going to Harvard." I turn it so the window faces up, and the message slowly comes into view.

_Without __a __doubt__. _

Saying nothing, I flip it again.

_It __is __decidedly __so__. _

And again.

_It __is __certain__. _

The words change, but the message doesn't. Shake after shake, it comes through loud and clear. I drop it onto the bed and cover my now-wet face with my hands.

"It's just an icosahedron die, Izzy. It's made of plastic and mass-produced in China—it doesn't _mean _anything."

"Says the girl who makes life-or-death decisions from the thing!"

She reaches across the bed and picks up the 8-Ball. "Will Izzy be happy in whatever real-world thing she ends up doing?" She turns it over so she can read the message. "Signs point to yes."

The next thing I know, my arms are around her. "I love you."

"Don't tell me you're buying into that it's-all-going-to-end-with-Y2K bullshit."

"It could, you know."

"In that case..." Alice hops off the bed and opens the fridge. "Why are we sober? 'They say two-thousand zero zero party over! It's out of time.'" She opens two bottles of Sam Adams, one of which she hands to me. "It's time to party like it's 1999."

For the next few nights, that's exactly what we do. Re-adapting to dorm life is surprisingly easy. With Alice, I don't have to apologize for the lack direction in my life as long as I can direct myself to the keg. I don't wonder if Edward misses me while I'm gone because I come to realize the girl living with him hasn't been me.

I miss me enough for the both of us.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

**December**** 12, 2009**

It's well after midnight, and though we're in bed, neither of us have gotten any sleep. We lie in silence, my head on his shoulder and his hands in my hair. There's an almost-artificial calm to him that makes me feel as if we've reached the eye of a storm that's nowhere near over. As much as I want us to talk this through, I don't push. I don't do anything but breathe and wait.

When he finally speaks, I'm so startled by his voice I don't understand his words.

"Huh?" I lift my head from his body and look at his face.

"I asked if Carlisle knows that we're..."

"Oh. Yes."

"That would explain Esme's reconnaissance mission."

"That's not what that was about." I make my voice as gentle as possible. "She always comes out of the kitchen when patrons order special bottles. Had you not asked her to join you for dinner, she'd have spent about five minutes at your table then gone back to work. She accepted your invitation–"

"Because she's married to Carlisle."

"–because she knows how much I want her to get to know you; I won't deny that. But if she hadn't been enjoying herself, she'd have made a beeline for the kitchen the second you finished the first course. She stayed because she likes you."

Though he seems unconvinced, he says nothing to challenge me. Not knowing what else to do, I return my head to his shoulder.

"What about Carlisle?" he asks.

"He's never met you."

"I'm aware of this. I was asking what he thinks about...well..._this_?"

"He..." As much as I don't want to lie to him, I don't want to make things between Carlisle and Edward any worse than they already are. "He can't say it out loud, either."

"You're not answering my question."

"I'm not sure how to—and that's the thing. You want answers, and so does he. No matter what I say or don't say, I'm violating someone's trust–"

"Why? Because you had sex with him?"

As harsh as it sounds, I'm glad Edward said it. Regardless of how much messier my history with Carlisle makes all this—or how dirty it makes me feel now—I don't regret it. Whatever happened with us in the past has nothing to do with the friendship we have now. That once upon a time we tried to be something more doesn't change this.

"No. Because I love him."

I expect him to react, but he doesn't—he doesn't do or say anything at all. I start to think maybe his response will be the same way it was before—delayed but intense—and brace myself for it. But when he speaks, his voice is quiet and oddly detached.

"Alice can't know."

I prop up my chest and whip my head around. "What?"

"This whole...thing. She's been through enough already; I won't add to it by telling her the childhood she remembers as idyllic was a lie."

"Edward, she's going to find out whether you tell her or not. She's coming here for Christmas, remember? Don't you think she'll take one look at Carlisle–"

"And remark how funny it is to have met our father's doppelganger. It won't occur to her to take it at anything other than face value—she doesn't know what a lecher he is. Hell, she barely knows him at all."

"She'd disagree."

"Of course she would. On the rare occasion she interacts with our father, he dotes on her. It doesn't occur to her he does so out of chauvinism. He expects nothing from her, so it's impossible for her to let him down."

I want to ask what he meant earlier when he said he lets his father and I have all the power, but I don't—I know this isn't the time. As it turns out, I don't have the opportunity. Moments later, he's out cold. Though I'm sure he'll regret drinking as much as he has come tomorrow morning, for now it's for the best—I doubt he'd be able to fall asleep tonight were he sober.

Part of me wishes I were drunk so I could pass out, too. Since I'm not, there's nothing for me to do but close my eyes and mentally replay what happened tonight again and again, hoping eventually it will start to make sense. Then his arms tighten around me in his sleep, and I realize none of it matters. He and I make sense. The rest of it we'll figure out in time.


	31. Regurgitated Perrier

**Chapter Thirty**

**Regurgitated Perrier**

* * *

**October**** 12, 1999**

"Can't you do something with your hair?"

Though Edward is standing behind me, I can see his face in the mirror. He doesn't appear to be kidding.

I lower my eyes, hoping he won't notice I'm fighting back tears. "I thought I already had."

"You know I can't hear you when you mutter like that."

"That's kind of the point," I say, mostly to myself.

Tonight shouldn't be this big of a deal—at least, I didn't think it would be. It's just a dinner party at the home of one of his coworkers. When he didn't drag me clothing shopping, I assumed he was okay with me dressing like myself tonight—or at least wearing what I think is appropriate for a dinner party. Wanting to show him I _do_ know the etiquette for such an occasion, I put on a knee-length black dress, understated make-up, and the only pair of heels I can walk in with confidence. I even straightened my hair—a Herculean task I would have skipped had I know he wanted me to wear it up. The amount of effort that went into my appearance today is surpassed only by the effort it's taking to suppress my sigh.

I should have known both would be a waste.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"I'm not Miss Cleo–"

"Who the hell is that?"

"–or even your sister, for that matter," I say, ignoring his interruption. "If there's something specific you wanted me to do tonight–"

"There isn't—I just think you'd look more professional with your hair up."

"Professional?" Feeling defensive, I fold my arms across my chest. "I though this was a _social _function."

"I meant sophisticated."

Oh, I know exactly what he meant, but I'm not in the mood to argue with him. After gathering my hair into my hands, I twist it into a knot and secure it at the back of my head with a large barrette. With my eyes closed, I silently count to ten, hoping he'll give me a moment to compose myself before we leave. The heat of his breath on my face the side of my face doesn't change its rhythm, and when I open my eyes he's standing exactly as he was, staring at my reflection in the mirror with apparent disapproval.

"I hate it when you look at me like that."

"Like what?"

For what feels like forever, I stare at the floor all the while trying to ignore the way his stare burns the back of my head. The next thing I know, the words come out on their own.

"Why are you even with me?"

"Because I love you." His answer is automatic—almost canned.

"I'm starting to think that word doesn't mean the same thing to you as it does to me."

"Love? That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" I open my eyes and meet his gaze. "I know I'm not perfect, but no one is. I guess..." I shake my head. "I don't even know. Forget I said anything."

"Come on. With all the things that come flying out of your mouth at inopportune moments, you choose this moment to find your inner filter?" He rolls his eyes. "God, you make me crazy sometimes."

"What the hell do you think you're doing to me? Look, I know there are things about me you can't stand—that goes both ways, you know. So you hate that I say what I think? Well, I hate how far _you__'__re_ willing to go to win the approval of people who don't matter."

"Believe me; they matter–"

I hold up my hand. "The difference between is that I make an effort to understand where you're coming from. I don't like it, but I'd never ask you to change—_my_ love comes with acceptance."

"Are you sure about that?" He takes a step back and crosses his arms. "If you were truly accepting of me, you'd understand the concessions I ask you to make in the company of certain individuals have nothing to do with how I feel about you."

"What is it, then?" I turn away from the mirror and extend my hands to him. "You tell me."

"It's about being successful in life—of meeting my goals."

"Does one of your goals involve making me resent you? Because that's the only thing asking me to play the Stepford girlfriend accomplishes.

"For god's sake, Isabella, this may have been cute when you were eighteen, but you're twenty-two years old now! Grow up. Do you think I enjoy being 'on' all the time? That it doesn't tire me out? Haven't you ever had to do something you didn't want to as a means to a worthwhile end?" He covers his eyes with his palms, burying his fingertips in his hair. "Of course you haven't," he says under his breath. "The only goal you've ever had was for me to kiss you with tongue." Groaning, he runs his hands through his hair. His eyes meet mine, and when he speaks, his voice is carefully measured. "If only you had something of your own. Maybe if there was more to your life than a minimum-wage job pouring coffee—then maybe you'd..." He shakes his head, sighing. "Never mind."

"Maybe I'd what?"

"Realize you're being a hypocrite!"

He throws up his hands and shrugs his shoulders. When the sheen on his palms catches the light, I look at his face, thinking maybe he's crying, too. Though his eyes are the greenest I've ever seen them, his cheeks appear to be dry.

"Is it that awful if once in a while I ask you to dress like an adult and watch what you say? Any career you could pursue would have similar requirements—real-world inexperience not withstanding, you're intelligent enough to understand this. Yet for some reason, you won't just suck it up and take it for the team—oh no! Instead, you throw tantrums and whine about how if I loved you the way you love me, I'd accept you for who you are the way you _allegedly_ accept me."

"What do you mean 'allegedly'?"

"Are you saying you accept me for who I am?"

"Of course I do."

"Okay then." He angles his head to the side as if scrutinizing me. "Who am I, Bella?"

"Excuse me?"

His face is blank; his voice betrays no emotion. "When you think of what makes me _me_, what comes to mind? You can't accept someone you don't know, right? Given your earlier claims, it should be easy for you to answer."

"Why...?" Sobbing, I gasp for air. As hard as I try to find my voice, I can't.

Just when I think I'm going to collapse, he wraps his arms around me. There's a brief feeling of weightlessness followed the familiar softness of our bed. With his lips pressed against my forehead, he pops open my barrette and lets down my hair.

"I'm sorry," he says, his breath hot against my skin. "I didn't mean to lash out, and the last thing I want is for you to resent me. I just don't think you realize...wait." He shifts his body so his eyes meet mine. "If in certain settings I ask you to tone down aspects of your personality or slightly alter your appearance, it's not because I want you to be that way all the time. You believe me, right? That I love you for who you already are?"

"I want to more than anything."

"But you don't."

I shake my head.

"Why?"

I tell him I don't know, but I do—I'm just not sure how to bring up my need for some kind of commitment in way that doesn't make me seem even more emotionally needy than I do already. He doesn't know I gave up Harvard to be with him—the same way I don't know he isn't biding his time with me until someone more suited for public life comes along. It would be unfair of me to hold sacrifices he doesn't know I made against him—just as it's wrong for him to ask me to make concessions that help him secure a future he hasn't indicated he wants to spend with me. This is the moment it hits me—it doesn't matter how much I love him. If I'm going to keep doing whatever it is he and I are doing, I need to know it's real for him, too.

**-o-O-o-**

**December**** 13, 2009**

When I open my eyes, it's like any other morning. I stretch my arms above my head and straighten my legs under the covers. My alarm hasn't gone off—I can get a bit more sleep if I want. When I roll onto my side, I see a folded piece of paper on the pillow beside me. Despite the fact I'm half-asleep, right away I recognize the handwriting as Edward's.

_Isabella,_

_I hate the thought of you opening your eyes to an empty bed, but you looked so peaceful I couldn't bring myself to wake you. __After everything I put you through last night, I imagine you need your rest. __Unfo__rtunately, there's a party matter which requires my attention today. __I doubt the details are of interest to you, so I won't bore you by explaining._

_This evening, I have plans for you—assuming you're not too tired after work. _

_Have a wonderful day, and who knows? Perhaps you'll get to open a memorable bottle._

_E._

_P.S. You pout in your sleep. You can't imagine what that makes me want to do to you._

It's too much for me to think about, so I get in the shower and dress for work hoping that in addition to truth, wine will bring clarity.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

I'm halfway to the wine cellar when Esme calls out to me from inside her office.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Last time I checked, I work here. Wait..." I turn on my heel and poke my head inside her door. "Did Carlisle get pissed off at me for something and drunk–fire me via text message again?"

"Not to my knowledge. I just thought you'd still be in bed."

I narrow my eyes. "Why? I mean, it's almost time for the dinner shift."

"It is. Then again, last night a certain visiting senator asked if we could spare you for the next couple of weeks."

"Weeks?" I step into her office and close the door behind me.

"Anyway, we owe you some vacation time. There's also the whole keeping-Carlisle-away-from-Edward-and-knives thing–"

"Carlisle still hasn't calmed down?"

"Eh." She shrugs. "He did, but then he got pissed off all over again last night when I told him I had dinner with Edward. I had to listen to a few hours of his now-standard rant about familial betrayal. You know—all the stuff he should tell his mother but won't."

"Ouch." I sink into the chair opposite her desk. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be; it's not your fault. Besides, Carlisle knows you'll be furious with him if he tried to take any of his daddy issues out on Edward. He'll get over it eventually—he has no choice."

"Maybe...but only if Edward plays nice, too. At this point, I wouldn't bet on it—telling him didn't exactly go well."

"I figured as much—otherwise, he would have told you I gave you the day off and you the two of you would be off somewhere doing fabulously dirty things to each other." She twists the cap off a bottle of Perrier and raises it to her lips.

"Right. Well, that's not going to happen any time soon. He hasn't said anything, but I have a feeling every time he closes his eyes he pictures me doing fabulously dirty things to his brother."

Esme's choking becomes coughing, and the next thing I know, she's spitting water all over her desk.

"Do you fucking mind?" She grabs a stack of napkins and wipes up the mess. "His brother happens to be my husband. I don't care how long ago it happened; the two of you doing dirty things is something I_ never_ want to think about. "

"I'm sorry."

After tossing the wet napkins into the waste bin, she folds her arms and leans back in her chair, seemingly lost in thought.

"What is it?"

"Did he really take it _that_ badly? Not going to lie—the whole you-and-Carlisle thing has a definite squick factor–"

"Thanks a lot, Esme. That's helpful."

"–but if I was able to get over it, I don't see why he can't."

"Maybe. I guess it didn't help that I blurted out that Carlisle was his brother in the car on the way back to my apartment."

"You can't be serious."

"What was I supposed to do? We were kissing and his hands were all over me. I had to tell him before I got distracted."

She leans forward onto her desk and covers her face with her hand. "Please tell me the driver is on his payroll."

"He was from a car service."

"Shit. Carlisle's finally starting to calm down. If he's mentioned in the tabloids as Senator Cullen's brother–"

"He won't be. Edward played it off as if they'd been Fly Club brothers at Harvard. Somehow, he managed to wait until we were alone to react to the news. When he finally did, it seemed to come out of nowhere—one minute, he's looking at your wedding picture and the next thing I know, he's having an emotional breakdown."

"Really?" she says, seeming to perk up. "That's encouraging."

"I can't imagine how."

"How many times have you wished he'd let you know how he's really feeling? Looks like he finally did. Things may messy now, but they'll settle down. By the way, there was a delivery for you this morning. It looked like wine, so I had Alec bring it downstairs."

"Fun. I'll go check it out."

When I get to the wine cellar, there's no crate to be seen. Rather than go home, I make my way through the cellar to where we keep our most precious wine. From the corner of my eye, I see it—an out-of-place bottle in the space which until last night was home to the 1995 Lafite. When I pull it from the rack, I realize it's empty except for a tightly-rolled piece of paper tied with a ribbon. After I pop the cork, I flip the bottle upside down; the paper falls right out. Unrolling it proves tricky, but somehow I manage to do so without tearing it.

_Isabella__,_

_There__'__s __a __driver __waiting__ outside __for __you__—__come__ to__ me__ exactly__ as __you__ are__._

_E__._

I do as he says. I think I always will.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

The hired Towncar brings to me the W Hotel on Lakeshore Drive at which point a security guard escorts me to what appears to be a penthouse suite. The moment the door swings open, I'm in Edward's embrace and everything else disappears. I don't know why it's different—why _he__'__s_different. Only that everything touching me—the arms, chest, lips, and tongue—they're all part of _him__. _Maybe that's why it feels as if I'm drowning. This may be a precursor to having him inside me, but at the moment I'm melting into him. I'm becoming one with him, and it's all I've ever wanted.

He lifts his mouth from mine and drags it across my face to my ear. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"What I said ten hours ago. What I did ten years ago. What I was thinking ten minutes ago."

His teeth graze my ear lobe as his hand cups my bare breast. I don't know where my clothing went, just that I'm no longer wearing it. My back is against the wall, and his hand is moving up the inside of my thigh. As amazing as it feels, it leaves me needing so much more.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

"Yes."

Ever so slowly, he presses a finger inside me. "And this?"

"Yes, please."

"And if I were to take you to bed with me..." He withdraws his finger almost entirely before sliding it back in. "Would you let me come inside you?"

I cup his face in my hands. "Only if you promise to stay there."

"There's no where else I want to be."

I pull his body against mine. "Okay."


	32. Grand Cru

massive stage fright requires huge preview audiences:

thanks to detochkina, books, nerac, and LJ Summers

and to Elizabeth440 for her infinite patience

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One**

**Grand Cru**

* * *

**-o-O-o-**

**December**** 25, 1999**

As our Christmas tradition dictates, Edward and I don't exchange gifts under the tree. The nature of our wish lists is such that we're far more comfortable doing so in the bedroom—regardless of whether we're giving or receiving.

"There's one more gift for you to unwrap," he says, getting out of bed.

"You're naked; I'm naked. I can still taste you in my mouth." I roll onto my side and prop my head up with my hand. "I think that's as unwrapped as it gets, don't you?"

"This one is special."

"As if what you did with your tongue on my..._you __know_...wasn't special."

"I do that to you all the time. This is different—it's new to both of us. I'd been waiting for the right time to give it to you, but I'm out of patience." After retrieving a small, square box from his top dresser drawer he comes over to my side of the bed. He hands it to me unceremoniously, nearly dropping it in the process. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was nervous.

Oh my god.

This is _it_.

_It_ means I don't have to wonder how he feels about me. If he's willing to commit to me this way, none of the rest matters. So what if he's bad at saying it? He wouldn't be proposing if he didn't want to spend his life with me—and that means more than anything.

I'm trembling as I untie the ribbon and open the cardboard gift box. There's another box inside, this one made of black velvet. Wanting to savor the moment, I run my thumb across the top it before trying to open it. It proves to be a challenge—my fingers are shaking and the hinge on the lid is tight. Laughing, Edward takes the box from my hands and opens it for me.

I don't look to see what's inside it; I'm more interested in what's going on inside him. My eyes are on his face as I wait for him to say something.

But he doesn't. After a moment, he thrusts the box back into my hands.

With great trepidation, I lower my eyes.

"I thought you could use something like this," he says. "Pearl studs are classic, and I'm told they go with everything. You can wear them to work...whenever it is you finally _go_ to work."

The disappointment is brief but crushingly painful—almost instantly, it subsides to anger. When humiliation overwhelms everything else, I know. As much as I belong with him, I'll never belong in his world. I come from the wrong background. I like the wrong things. I don't think before I speak.

I'm a fucking idiot.

No, I tell myself. I've _been_ a fucking idiot. Not anymore. Without saying a word, I get out of bed and get dressed. Arguing with him won't change his mind any more than it will change mine, but I'll do it anyway. I may not be able to save our relationship, but I can salvage what's left of my self-esteem.

"I _do_ work."

He rolls his eyes. "You work the counter at a coffee shop; it hardly qualifies."

"It's enabled me to put away a good chunk of money."

"Only because you live with me and have no expenses."

"You wouldn't let me contribute! You said you didn't care if I couldn't afford half the rent—that it would be better for me to save my money. You said all you wanted was for me to be with you."

"Yes, I did. I still do. I just never expected that being with me would become the _only _thing you do. Put yourself in my position for a moment. How am I supposed to introduce you to my colleagues? 'This is my girlfriend who—despite holding a degree from a prestigious university—is content to pour coffee for seven dollars an hour?' I can't help that it bothers me to see you wasting your life—what I don't understand is why it doesn't bother you."

"Because I'm wasting it on you! How about the next time you're forced to introduce me to yet another limousine liberal automaton, tell it like it is."

"That you're a glorified waitress?"

"No, that I gave up a chance to earn a PhD at Harvard to be with you!"

His mouth falls open but produces no sound.

"I was accepted to graduate school. I declined the offer because I couldn't stand the thought of being away from you." I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, I'm finally able to see things clearly. "It's my own fault. It's a sacrifice you never asked me to make—it would be unreasonable to hold it against you. But if it weren't for everything else...if you weren't trying to change me into someone I don't want to be..."

I don't finish my sentence, but it doesn't matter. Nothing I could say would make a difference. His political aspirations will always come before me, as will his need to earn his father's approval. That the best I can hope for is a distant third isn't news—it's been this way since the beginning. The onus to change falls entirely on me.

"I've never asked you to change a thing," he says.

"But you have! 'Bella, could you put your hair up? It's more sophisticated that way.' Or what about, 'How about telling people you're taking a year off between college and grad school rather than saying you work at a coffee shop? It just sounds better.'"

"It _does _sound better."

"Only because you're so wrapped up in how other people think of you–"

"I _have _to think like that. Ultimately, popular votes will control my destiny, and popularity is based entirely on perception. You're intelligent enough; I shouldn't have to explain to you how a girlfriend who doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut is a potential liability to me getting what I want–"

"What _you _want—that's the problem. What makes you happy makes me miserable...and I just can't..." I stop and take a deep breath. "I may not have known what I wanted to _be_ as early as you did, but I knew who I was. As things stand now, I don't know who I am unless it's in relation to you." I'm not sure when I started to cry but I am. It's hard to breathe and even harder to speak. "You want people to see me a certain way, and I don't care about that. I don't care how people see me, or if they see me at all—I just want you to love me."

_Tell me you love me. Please. It would change everything. Tell me you love me, and I won't do this._

When the silence becomes unbearable, I go to the living room and put on my coat and shoes as quickly as I can. It isn't until I'm reaching for my handbag that Edward makes his way out of the bedroom.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Leaving."

"Could you be any more melodramatic?" He throws up his palms. "Grow up, Bella."

"What?"

"You want to be this way? Fine. Have your Christmas tantrum because you didn't get what you wanted. I'm telling you right now, if you walk through that door I'm not following you."

I don't say or do anything. Somehow, my legs move on their own.

There's the sound of a door slamming behind me followed by an elevator chime. Cold air stings my face, and I vaguely register that I'm outside. I walk against the wind hoping it will numb me, but it burns the way only winter can. When I can't take it another second, I stand on the curb and raise my arm.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

The cabby moves his two-way radio away from his mouth. "Where to?"

"Home."

"O-kay," he says, drawing out the second syllable. "Where would that be?"

I have no idea. There's no place for me with either of my parents, and though Washington DC has never felt like home to me, Edward has. A voice somewhere screams for me to go back to him. Unless I do something drastic, it's only a matter of time before I do as it says.

"The airport, I guess."

"Which one? Look, lady, I'm off the clock in half an hour. I don't mind running a little over for a decent fare, but there's no way in hell I'm schlepping to BWI so close to the end of my shift on Christmas."

"Then take me to Dulles or Reagan—I don't care which. Just as long as I can get a flight out tonight..."

If he thinks I'm crazy, he doesn't say. When his eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror, the look on his face tells me he understands.

"You'll have more options at Dulles."

He radios the dispatcher our destination and pushes some buttons on the meter. The taxi moves but the numbers on the meter's red LED don't change. I spend the cab ride staring at it, willing the numbers to give me some tangible evidence I'm moving forward.

They don't. When we pull into the loading area, they're exactly what they were in the beginning.

"It's a flat rate to the airport," he says.

I pay the fare and go inside, stopping at the first available agent.

"I'd like to purchase a ticket, please."

"Where to?"

I'm not sure what to tell her. As much as I want a clean break, I can't stand the thought of losing all ties to him. On impulse, I choose the town in which Edward was raised—the same town to which he'd sworn he'd never return.

"Chicago," I say. "One-way. I won't be coming back."

"Do you have any baggage you need to check?"

I laugh—but only so I won't cry. "More than you'll ever know."

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

The earliest flight I can get is at five o'clock in the morning, leaving me nothing to do but wait.

_Merry __Christmas__, __Izzy__!_

The chairs by the gate are hard, but I think I'd be able to get comfortable despite this if I weren't so cold. At first I think I'm shivering because I'm upset, but that only happens when I'm crying, and I'm not. I'm not thinking about Edward or what I'll do with myself come tomorrow morning. Instead, I focus on the bite in the air and wonder why I never noticed airports are frigid. I look around the terminal. Compared to the throngs of people one usually encounters in airports, it's practically deserted. No wonder my teeth are chattering—more than likely, the airport's climate control is programmed to account for the body heat generated by crowds.

I turn up my collar, hoping to trap the heat of my breath against my skin, but it makes no difference. I'm cold because I'm alone. As wrecked as I feel, I laugh at the irony. With him I suffocate; without him I freeze. I lose my life regardless, but I don't have to lose my pride. Rather than fixate on the past, I embrace the present.

I take off my coat.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

After landing at O'Hare, I ignore everything but my most immediate need—shelter. Since I don't know my way around at all, the Hilton at the airport is my safest bet. It's too expensive for me to justify for more than a couple of nights, but that's a good thing. If I have to focus all my energy into finding an apartment tomorrow, I won't be able to wallow.

Today is different—today I need to mourn. The second I'm alone in my hotel room, this is exactly what I do. I don't fight it when my body goes limp from the weight of what's happened because _he_ isn't here to think less of me for showing my feelings. When my legs can no longer support my body, I fall onto the bed, grateful he isn't here to tell me I'm weak for being real.

Hours later, I'm crying because as much as I hate him, I love him more.

I'm crying _because_ he isn't here.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

**December**** 13, 2009**

Edward's touch is far headier than any wine I've ever tasted. It isn't long before I'm too dizzy to stand, and we fall into bed wrapped tightly in each other's arms. Being with him is different than I remember but not in the way I thought it would be. Despite the fact it's been nearly two years since I've had sex, I'm not worried that I won't live up to his expectations. I'm comfortable with myself now, and this give me the confidence to do things I wouldn't have dreamed of ten years ago—such as spread my legs for him without shame or self-consciousness.

Right away, he takes his place between them.

"This is all I've been able to think about—your skin, your mouth..." His hips press against mine. "Your heat..." He lowers his head to my breast and sucks one of my nipples into his mouth. As he releases it, he grazes it lightly with his teeth. "...and your taste."

"I'm done thinking."

I brush my fingers down the front of his body until they're touching him there. My hand closes around him, squeezing his length while stroking the underside of his head with my thumb until his breaths become moans. I rub him against me—up and down, again and again. When he's as wet as I am, I press the tip of him inside me. Just as I'm about to shift my hips to accommodate the rest of him, he's getting out of bed.

For a moment, I'm too shocked to speak. Before I can ask him if something's wrong, he's kneeling beside me with a handful of condoms. He hangs onto one and drops the rest onto the bedside table.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Having these next to the bed felt presumptuous. I didn't want you to think I invited you here for sex—especially after the way I behaved last night."

"Did any of the _arrangements_ you mentioned having with certain women involve unprotected sex?"

"No. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Have you had unprotected sex since me?"

"Yes."

"But I'm guessing you've been tested recently."

"Not exactly," I say, staring down at the bedsheet.

"And you were ready to go without a condom?"

"It's not the way it sounds." I run my hands through my hair. "Ugh! I can explain, but it will only piss you off. Please believe me when I say I'd never put you at risk."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because I've only been with one person besides you, and though we may not have been committed to each other, we _were_ monogamous..." I sigh. "I'll tell you anything you want to know—later. I want tonight to be about us, and I know it won't be if we talk about him. Just trust me when I say I _know_ I'm good."

"If memory serves me right, you're very good." He gives me a quick kiss on the lips then holds up the condom."_This_ is my way of making sure you're also safe. To be honest, I'd be shocked if I wasn't clean. But until I see it in writing, I'm not going to put you at risk. There's nothing in my life I care about more than you."

"Oh, I can think of something."

"You're wrong."

I don't know if he means it or not—just that I've never wanted him more. "Make love to me."

Without taking his eyes off mine, he moves his hand up and down his length, unabashedly enjoying his own touch. When he's fully hard again, he gets a condom. Squeezing its reservoir tip, he repeats the movement he was doing before, this time sheathing himself along the way.

"Now, where was I?" he asks, stroking me between my legs. "I think I was just about..." His finger enters me. "...here. Of course, we'd worked up to that. We started with some of this."

He kisses me leisurely at first. Then his tongue takes on the rhythm of his hand, and before I know it, I'm almost there.

"Do you know how beautiful you are when you come?" he asks. "Please. I want to see it...Y_es._ That's it, baby."

My entire body goes rigid and, just when I think I'll die from the tension, I come.

When I open my eyes, Edward's smiling at me.

"Beautiful." His brushes his lips against mine and settles himself between my legs.

I'm still trembling when he enters me.

"I love you," he whispers.

Just when I think this is it—that it doesn't get better than this moment. Then he starts to move.

I think I like being wrong.


	33. Dirty Martinis

for elizabeth440

thanks to books, detochkina, and LJ Summers.

It's nice to be back. I've missed you.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two**  
**Dirty Martinis**

* * *

**December 26, 1999**

It's two o'clock in the morning, but I don't let that stop me. In all honesty, it's just as well. I have no desire to call Alice at her father's house where the caller ID will display my location. The last thing I want to do is put her in the middle and telling her I'm in Chicago then asking her not tell Edward isn't fair to her. As freaked out as I am about doing this, I know I have to. As much as I needed to get out of D.C., I don't want to hurt Alice or cause Edward to worry needlessly.

As suspected, the phone doesn't even ring. There's a pause, and then I hear her voicemail greeting. I start speaking after the tone.

"Alice, it's Izzy. I just couldn't do it anymore. We got into a fight and I realized if I didn't get out now, I never would. Anyway, I'm safe, and I love you. I'll be in touch." I move to hang up the phone, then stop. "No matter what, you'll always be my sister."

I end the call right before my voice breaks. For the second time in as many nights, my pillow is soaked before I finally fall asleep.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 27, 1999**

I step away from the door and scan the tables in the coffee shop, looking for potential-apartment dude. There are two blond guys here but neither of them have goatees, so I'm guessing I made it here before he did.

"Isabella? Hi, I'm Carlisle."

The next thing I know, I'm on the floor.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh huh." I scramble to my feet and brush off my jeans, afraid to look at his face. After our somewhat-awkward phone conversation, he probably already thinks I'm a spaz. Explaining that I fell off my stool because I'm that stressed over finding a place to live wouldn't do much to change his mind.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't."

Forcing a smile, I look up at him. He's exactly how he described himself—very tall, with blond hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. At the same time, this description isn't entirely accurate. He left out that the part about being good-looking to the point it's almost intimidating. Meanwhile, I feel like an asshole for even noticing. I offer to buy him coffee, hoping the time standing in line will be enough to pull myself together. By the time I return to our table, I'm convinced I can do this without sounding like a douche.

"I'm glad you were okay with meeting me here before looking at your apartment," I say. "I mean, I know if I move in I'll be alone with you all the time. It's just I've never been out on my own before and–"

"It's okay."

"No, it's kind of a pain in the ass—that's why I appreciate it so much. Anyway, it's not as if I'm paranoid or anything. But my dad is a cop, and for as long as I can remember, I've been told never to go anywhere with strange men."

His eyes widen.

Fuck, what if he's offended? I backpedal, trying to cover my ass.

"Not that I think I you're strange. I mean, in the ten minutes I've known you, several adjectives have gone through my head, but strange isn't one of them. Good-looking has, but since the same can be said of the average serial killer..."

One corner of his mouth turns up, and he cocks his head to the side. "I'm not sure how to take that."

"Anyway, I've been babbling about myself so much we've barely talked about you. And we should, you know, before we go back to your place."

His laughter catches me off-guard—not because I don't see the humor in what I said, but because it reminds me so much of Edward's.

"Back to my place?" he says. "Well, when you put it like that..."

"Ha ha. You're funny. You know what I mean."

"You mean you don't want to see my etchings?"

I flash him The Look of Death.

He smiles. "Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"You're right; I'm not."

"Fine, then I'll go first. I'm twenty-two, and I just moved here from Washington."

"State or D.C.?"

"I grew up in Washington State. I went to college in Washington D.C., where I earned a degree that's useless unless I want to teach, which I don't. I mean, I'm sure it pays more than what I was making as a barista, and it would get everyone off my back about my lack of direction, but I don't think I have the patience for it."

"Then you shouldn't do it. Teaching is hard job—even for those who love it. It's not fair to students to go into education simply because you can't think of anything else you're qualified to do."

"Right." I put my elbow on the table and rest my head on my palm. "Your turn. What do you do?"

"I'm a teacher."

It doesn't matter that I don't know what to say to him. I'm too busy choking on my foot.

"Just kidding," he says, laughing. "I do have a degree in music education, though. When I was right out of college, I taught high school for a year."

"You make it sound like it was a long time ago. You can't be that old."

"I'm twenty-eight. Anyway, the funding for the program was cut, and I took a job waiting tables. It didn't take long for me to realize I was more comfortable in the kitchen than I ever was in a classroom, so I went back to school to learn to cook. Now I'm the sous-chef at Jude's."

"Wow. I like to cook and people say I'm good at it, but I can't imagine doing it for a living."

"Don't like cooking that much, huh?"

"Oh, I love it. It just never occurred to me I could pay the bills that way. Then again, I majored in French—I can't make pay the bills that way, either." I move my arm, knocking over my coffee in the process. "Shit." I mop up the spill with the paper napkin I don't realize I've shredded until now. "I'm not usually this clumsy."

"You're nervous. It's fine; I get it."

"Is it that obvious?" I close my eyes and sigh. "God, I feel like such a tool."

"Why? You said you've never been out on your own, and moving to a city where you don't know anyone is a huge adjustment for anyone."

"True. Then there's prospect of living with someone I don't know—and that's scary. I mean, I did it my freshman year of college, but this is different because...well, you have a..._you know_. You know what I mean, right?"

"Was that English?"

"Don't make fun of me."

"You know," he says, laughing. "You could have just said it's because I'm a guy."

"In case you haven't noticed I'm a little on edge here!"

"A little?"

"Hey, I'm slowly calming down. Twenty minutes ago, I wasn't even able to keep my ass on my seat."

"At this rate, by the time we get back to my apartment, you may even be acting normal. Let me know if that happens, okay? Somehow I get the feeling having a baseline for later comparison would be helpful."

**-o-O-o-**

I don't know that I'm necessarily what I'd call normal, but by the time Carlisle and I walk around the corner to his apartment, I'm the most at ease I've been all day. That his facial expressions remind me of Edward doesn't come as a surprise to me. In the two days since I left Washington D.C., I see Edward just about everywhere I look.

Carlisle's apartment is just about perfect. A couple blocks from Wrigley Field and built around the same time, it has lots of neat architectural touches newer construction lacks. There's only one bathroom, but the kitchen is so amazing it more than makes up for it. Most importantly, something about him tells me I can trust him—and it has nothing to do with the fact he volunteers his personal information and tells me to have my dad run a background check.

By the time I take care of my bill at the hotel, I'm too tired to make a run for necessities. I move into my new place carrying nothing but my purse. If Carlisle thinks it's weird that he has to lend me sheets, towels, and a t-shirt to sleep in, he doesn't comment.

And if he hears me crying in my bedroom, he doesn't comment about that, either.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 16, 2009**

Since Edward came to Chicago earlier than planned, Esme suggested we introduce him to Carlisle as soon as possible. This way, if things didn't go well, all parties involved would have enough time to cool off before Christmas, thus sparing Alice unnecessary drama.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. When Carlisle and Esme arrive for dinner, Edward comes with me to answer the door. Though I've spent hours mentally going over what I'd say at this moment, when I open my mouth nothing comes out. Just as I find my voice, I hear Carlisle's.

"Hello, Senator," he says.

"Good evening, Carlisle."

They stand there staring at each other the way fighters size up their opponents.

"I don't know about you," Esme says, "but the draft by the door here is killing me. Why don't we move this to the living room? We could sit down and have some drinks."

"I was about to mix some martinis," I say.

"Perfect. I'll have mine extra dirty."

Esme follows me into the living room, but Edward and Carlisle stay rooted in place.

"Would you come for a walk with me?" Edward asks him. "There are some things I need to say to you."

* * *

**It's been a while, I know. Real-life has been giving me a beat-down, but I think the worst is over. Thanks for staying with me. **


	34. Cask Strength

Thanks to detochkina and books.

And a huge thanks to Emmanuelle Nathan for her lovely homage to _Fall to Ruin One Day_ in _This Buried Life_.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three**  
**Cask Strength**

* * *

**December 30, 1999**

During the day, it's easy for me to be productive. No one conducts job interviews the week between Christmas and New Year's, so instead of actively looking for work, I use the time to get my bearings in my new surroundings. The busier I stay, the less I think of Edward. Then night finds me alone in what feels like someone else's apartment, and there's nothing for me to do but think.

It's ridiculous that crying is as much a part of my bedtime routine as brushing my teeth or putting on lotion. I never forget that it was my decision to leave. Sobbing nightly isn't healthy, but neither is sacrificing myself for someone unwilling to do the same for me.

This night is no different. On my newly-delivered bed in what still doesn't feel like my room, I hug my knees to my chest and let it all out. It isn't until I stretch out under the covers that I hear it—Vivaldi's Guitar Concerto in D. Carlisle must have turned on the stereo to drown out my sobbing, and that makes me feel like an ass. I get out of bed and head to the living room to apologize, stopping in my tracks the moment I see Carlisle.

He's wearing nothing but black chef pants. It's the first time I've seen him without his shirt, and though he has a nice chest, that's not what renders me immobile. It's the realization the music I assumed was a CD is actually coming from him.

His eyes are closed, and he's swaying. In this moment, it's as if nothing exists for him but music and his guitar. I'm not sure why, but I feel like I'm intruding on something not meant for my eyes. It's awkward, and I'm about to tiptoe back to my room when he opens his eyes and catches me standing in the hallway like a tool.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't."

He continues to play, never pausing or missing a note. Since he doesn't seem to mind my being here, I walk into the living room and sit Indian-style on the floor in front him, marveling at his talent.

"Thank you," I say when he's finished, "for letting me listen."

"Are you feeling better?"

"What do you mean?"

Then I realize what he's asking.

"Oh." Embarrassed, I look down at my lap. "I was hoping you couldn't hear me."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I shake my head. "Not really."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"How long have you played?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Guitar?"

I nod.

"Since high school. I was in a band with a few of my buddies. It was piano and saxophone before that. Then in college I pretty much had to learn a little of everything. What about you?"

"I learned a little of everything in college, too. I'd like to forget some of it, but that's easier said than done."

He smiles. "I was asking if you played any instruments."

"Oh. I don't. Do you think you could do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Play something else for me. I don't care what; it's just nice to listen."

"Okay."

He pauses for a moment, then starts to play a song I don't recognize. At first I think it's another classical piece, but then he starts to sing.

"Oh amigo, here we do things slow. Money, art, a broken heart—where did you want to go?"

I may not have told him why I was crying, but I think he knows. With my eyes closed, I listen to my new friend sing about an old love.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 16, 2009**

"They've been gone twenty minutes now," I say, staring at the clock on my oven. "Whatever the hell is going on out there, it can't be good."

"I'm sure it's fine." Esme takes a sip of her martini. "Besides, I'm Carlisle's next of kin. If he lands in the hospital, someone's going to call me."

"'If he lands in the hospital?'" I repeat in disbelief. "How can you be so calm about this?"

"He's a fourth-degree black belt. There's also this." She raises her glass. "_This _takes care of everything else. You should have one; you'll feel better."

"I'm going to need something stronger than that."

She puts her glass on the counter and heads to the liquor cabinet in the living room. "Have anything cask strength? Never mind; for a second I forgot whose apartment this is. Which would you prefer—Macallen or Lagavulin? Ooh, you have a twenty-five year bottle of Laphroaig? Don't let Carlisle see this—he'll be pissed you've been holding out on him."

"I was saving it for after Christmas dinner. I figured with everything that could go wrong that night..."

I stop when Esme walks back into the kitchen holding the Laphroaig.

"Santa came early this year." She gets a tumbler from the cabinet, pours two fingers, and hands it to me.

I stare at the amber liquid. "That isn't the right shaped glass to appreciate the nose–"

"Drink it, Izzy."

After throwing it back with a single gulp, I look at the clock again. "Thirty-two minutes. This is killing me! I feel like we should do something."

"Me, too." She gets a second tumbler from the cabinet. "Let's have another round. This time, I'll join you."

The cool crystal graces my lips for about a second when the front door opens. In walk Edward and Carlisle, in the middle of a conversation that's surprisingly civil, if not warm.

"So, Izzy, what are we drinking?" Carlisle asks, shrugging out of his coat.

"Laphroaig," Esme says. "Cask strength, aged twenty-five years."

"Where'd she have that hidden, way in the back?" He turns to me, shaking his head. "You've been holding out on me."

Ignoring him, I make my way around the kitchen island to where Edward is unbuttoning his coat.

"Is everything okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" He hangs his coat in the closet then kisses the top of my head.

"I'm assuming you take your single-malt neat?" Carlisle asks from inside the kitchen.

Edward laughs. "Is there any other way?"

I busy myself with getting dinner on the table. As we eat, I focus on how relieved I am to have passed this hurdle with everything seeming okay. Then Carlisle asks Edward what I was like when I was eighteen, and sibling rivalry reigns supreme. Of course, they don't fight over the usual stuff. Oh no. The source of contention is which brother witnessed my most humiliating moment. I'm not sure why I worried that they'd kill each other. The two of them actually getting along is far worse.

"No," Carlisle says, shaking his head. "The best was the time Izzy jerked off after slicing jalapeno peppers and was convinced the burn was karmic retribution for telling some guy it felt good to rub poison ivy on your pubes."

"Okay." I kick Carlisle under the table. "You win. Can we please stop now?"

"Seriously?" Edward looks at me in apparent disbelief. "I mean, not the bit about poison ivy. Obviously, I remember that happening—that was the night I realized I was in love with you. But jalapeno peppers?"

"Oh, don't give me that! As if none of you have ever tried to sneak in a quickie while the pot is boiling."

"Sure," Carlisle says, "but generally, I wash my hands."

Edward nods. "Oh, definitely. I can't even boil water without destroying the pot, and even I know to wash my hands."

"I did wash my hands! At least, I did before I went back to cooking. Speaking of which, I should go get the cheese course." As I leave the table, I cover my mouth and fake cough while saying, "Fuck you, Carlisle."

The sound of laughter follows me into the kitchen. I'm smiling, but I don't let them see it. If Edward and Carlisle find each other through all of this, my own mild humiliation is a small price to pay.

**-o-O-o-**

"Are you sure you don't need me to call a taxi?" I ask, walking Carlisle and Esme to the door.

"I haven't had a drink since before dinner; we'll be fine." Esme kisses me on one cheek and then the other. "I'll call you in the morning." She turns to Edward. "And you..." She puts her arms around him and pulls his face to hers. "You be good," she says, kissing his cheek. "_Á bientôt_."

After they've left, Edward pours himself another drink. "That went better than I thought it would."

Air leaves my lungs in a gush, and my posture slacks with the release of tension. "Okay, so I'm dying here. What did the two of you talk about?"

"You know the conversation was about you. Otherwise, we wouldn't have felt compelled to leave."

"What about me?"

He takes a swig then wipes his mouth with the hand holding his glass. "I apologized on behalf of my father even though I genuinely believe Carlisle's been better off not knowing the man. I thanked him for taking care of you all these years, for putting you first and not taking advantage of your situation. The whole discussion was...enlightening."

"How so?"

"Tell me something." He swallows the rest of his drink then places the empty glass on the countertop. When he looks at me, he's wearing his campaign face. "Are you unaware of the fact he's in love with you, or did you just choose not to tell me?"

* * *

Cask-strength is a term used in whisky-making to describe the level of alcohol-by-volume strength that is used for a whisky during its storage in a cask for maturation—typically in the range of 60–65%. Most whisky is diluted to about 40-45% before bottling to make it more palatable to consumers.

The song Carlisle plays for Izzy in the first part of the chapter is "Mexican Moon" by Concrete Blonde. It's lovely on a silk-string guitar.


	35. Dom Pérignon

thanks to regina and books.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Four**  
**Dom Pérignon**

* * *

**December 31, 1999**

I try not to think about what Edward is doing or what I'd be doing if I were with him. But the apartment is empty, and there's nothing for me to do but think. This is how I waste away the last morning of the millennium—curled up on the couch in flannel sleep pants sipping coffee, all the while trying not to think about Edward. It doesn't take long for me to give up—in the absence of distractions, my effort is futile. Needing something—anything—to do, I get up and, for the first time, really look at stuff around the apartment.

I justify it to myself easily. It's my apartment, too, and Carlisle told me to make myself at home, that I shouldn't feel weird about using his things. In that sense, it's not snooping. But my face heats up anyway because this is one of those scenarios where intent means more than action, and I'm doing it to get a handle on who Carlisle is.

The apartment is decidedly masculine, but not in a typical-guy kind of way. The staples are all accounted for—the leather living-room furniture, the high-end stereo equipment, the mostly-bare walls. There's a general lack of color—nearly everything is black, white, or made of metal. For the most part, it all seems to fit. Then there are these random pieces here and there that don't—the deep red cashmere throw draped over the edge of the sofa, the flokati, the fabric shower curtain and liner. Aesthetically, they work, but there's something about them that doesn't go, like the they're the ghosts of girlfriends past.

I make my way to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. It's empty except for a box of Magnums.

"Izzy? If you're there, pick-up."

Carlisle's voice over the answering machine makes my face heat up as if he knows what I've been doing even though it's not possible.

I close door of the the medicine cabinet and go to the kitchen to pick up the phone.

"Hey Carlisle."

"Look, we're slammed tonight and a couple of the temps we hired didn't show. I'm not sure if you have plans–"

"You're kidding, right?"

"I didn't want to presume. Anyway, if you'd like to earn some cash and get out of the apartment..."

Working is probably the best thing for me right now.

"Just tell me when and where."

**-o-O-o-**

When I arrive at Jude's, Carlisle meets me in the foyer. I can't remember how he looked when he left the apartment this morning, but it wasn't anything like the way he looks now. His hair which I'd only ever seen down, is pulled back into a tight, short ponytail at the nape of his neck. He's wearing the same black chef coat and pants he wears home. By then his uniform is a wrinkled, sweaty mess—not immaculately pressed the way it is now.

"Is it weird that I'm disappointed you're not wearing a funny hat?"

Laughing, he gestures for me to follow him. "Sorry if I seem abrupt. I've never taken on anything this big by myself, and it feels like I have to be a hundred different places at once."

"You're running the kitchen?"

"I'm running _everything_."

"Is that what it means to be a sous chef?"

"No. Technically, a sous chef is second-in-command, but since the concept behind tonight was my idea, I was given free rein over its execution. If it's a success, I'm that much closer to being able to open my own place."

"So this is a big night for you! You must be so excited."

He snorts. "More like scared shitless. If I don't pull this off, I'll end up busing tables. Anyway, back to business. If you think you can handle it, I'd like you to work with our sommelier. He's the guy who–"

"Handles the wine, I know." I roll my eyes. "Tell me something—what is it about breasts that renders a person incapable of working a corkscrew?"

"Huh?"

"Why does everyone assume sommeliers are dudes? My boyfriend..." I stop, meaning to correct myself. At the same time, I can't bring myself to refer to Edward as my ex. "I mean Edward...well, he's the same way."

He stops walking and turns to face me. "Look, I don't know what happened back in Washington, and I'm trying to mind my own business, but I've been around long enough to know a few things..." He looks at me as if waiting for permission to continue.

I nod. "Okay."

"Whatever it was that brought you here was real. Pretending it didn't happen, not saying it outloud—that doesn't change anything. It just makes it harder to move on."

He's right, but that doesn't make it easier. When I find my voice, I'm staring at his steel-toed boots.

"My ex-boyfriend and his father...well, they were both pretty insistent that female sommeliers don't exist. His dad was kind chauvinistic to the point I barely could bring myself to talk around him, but Edward..." I look up at him, shrugging. "I don't know. I guess his father brought out the worst in him. Sorry to snap at you. Hearing 'sommelier' and 'guy' in the same sentence struck a nerve."

"Female sommeliers _are_ rare. Ours is male; that's why I referred to him as a guy."

My cheeks are on fire. "Oh."

"Anyway, Laurent—that's his name—tends to speak French when he's rushing around, and since you're fluent, I thought he'd enjoy having you help him out. As far as everything else goes, as much as I'd like to talk more, I'm on borrowed time right now."

"Right. Sorry."

I follow him downstairs to the wine cellar where he makes some quick introductions then makes himself scarce. At first, Laurent intimidates me. He appears to be in his fifties, and his demeanor is gruff. But after working beside him for while, I start to notice a fatherly warmth beneath his no-nonsense facade. Once he convinces me the wine service tonight is more about quantity than quality, I stop worrying that I'll drop a bottle or spill some champagne.

The next thing I know, it's five minutes to midnight and Laurent is handing me a glass of Dom Pérignon and sending me to the dining room so I won't be "on my own for the start of the new milenium". It's a sweet gesture, but a bit of a waste—even if I'm surrounded by people, I'll still be alone.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 16, 2009**

I take a deep breath and swallow hard. Though I didn't expect Edward's conversation with Carlisle to go well, I never expected this.

"I find it difficult to believe he said that."

"He didn't have to."

"Oh." When I exhale, I force a giggle. "You must have misunderstood. He cares about me, but not like that."

"Look, I know you at least tried to move on after you left. I expected that—hell, I'd even hoped for it. I love you enough to want you to be happy, even if it means I have no place in your life. But if this..." He waves his index finger between us. "...is going to work, you have to be honest with me. And I'm getting the distinct impression you haven't been."

Sighing, I close my eyes. When I open them, I see Edward—really see him—for what's probably the first time.

He's a man.

That's all he is.

Not a senator, or a larger-than-life figure cast in bronze or marble, not an overwhelming presence, and certainly not a sex god. He's a just a man—a man who fears loss and betrayal as much as anyone else. A man whose fears are not unfounded, and that's because of me.

"You're right," I say. "I'll tell you everything—on one condition."

"Okay."

"I expect the same from you."

"I've already told you. I had sex with a few women but no relationships and certainly no feelings."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

With upturned palms, he flails his arms. "What do you want—names and dates?"

"God, no. Whatever 'arrangements' you had and whom they were with—none of that matters to me. In fact, I'd rather pretend it didn't happen."

"You know everything else!" His breathing is getting louder and his face more red. "Hell, the whole fucking country knows everything else. The media is nothing if not–"

"Why are you on anxiety meds?"

He takes in air as if he's about to say something, but no sound escapes his lips. Instead he turns away, covering his face with his hands.

I'm not sure how long I stand there staring at his back, but enough time passes that I wonder if I'm imagining his almost-imperceptible trembling. His silence makes me nervous, and eventually I start to panic. That's when I give up trying to figure it out—I'm shaking enough that I wouldn't be able to tell anyway.

When he finally speaks, he's still facing the other direction. "Please don't change the subject."

His voice is quiet and measured, but I think his face could be telling a different story. If it weren't, he'd let me see it.

"I love you so much. It's..." Not knowing what else to say, I press my body to his back, hoping to convey to him that I'm physically affected too, and there isn't any shame in it.

The next thing I know I'm in his arms. My face is against his chest, and I can feel the wild beating of his heart. I'm not sure if I'm crying out of stress, semi-drunkeness, or the sheer relief that comes with Edward holding me. What matters more is that I'm unable to stop. I'm as vulnerable as ever, but it doesn't bother me because I know I'm not alone, that he's vulnerable, too.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean–"

"Shh." His arms tighten around me. "You can't control how other people feel."

"I meant for snooping in your medicine cabinet. I just wanted to see if you were still as anal-retentive as you used to be. Did I...I mean...are they...? Shit."

I wipe under my eyes and pull just far enough away to enable me to see his face. He's flushed but doesn't appear to have been crying. I want to ask if him if my leaving the way I did is part of why he takes them—if that's what he meant the other night when he said he was angry at himself for letting me have all the power, but I won't—at least not now. There's something I have to say first—something he should have heard from me and not inferred from a conversation he never wanted to have with the half-brother he never wanted to meet.

Standing as tall as I can, I meet his gaze. "I told you Carlisle and I had been friends with benefits, and though it's technically true, it was more involved than that. I didn't know where things were going between you and I, or if I'd see you again after that night. It was the first time we'd been alone together in so long. If it turned out to be all we had, I didn't want to waste it talking about other people."

"So you and he _were_ together–"

"Not exactly. I wasn't ready for that kind of thing. I came out here because I felt like I'd needed to figure out who I was again. I couldn't do that if I got into another serious relationship. For the first year we lived together, we were just friends. Then we starting sleeping together, and eventually were just...more. I wish there was a way I could explain it. Unless..." Then I remember the letter I wrote Carlisle all those years ago—the one now hidden at the bottom my lingerie drawer beneath the underwear I only use once a month.

"There's something I want to show you." I head to my bedroom, tugging him along with me.

When I turn away from my dresser with the folded sheet of faded yellow legal paper in hand, the sight of Edward standing beside my bed renders me incapable of movement. His presence is still surreal enough that for a moment, I wonder if I'm imagining it.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm not stalling. It's just that sometimes I still can't believe you're here."

"I know the feeling." His smile is small but real.

It reminds me that however awkward I may feel, he's worth it.

"I wrote this about a year after I moved here," I say, handing him the letter. "Carlisle gave it back to me, hoping I'd let you read it. I couldn't bring myself to show it to you, but not because I'm trying to hide anything. Those first months away from you..." I shake my head.

"What?"

"I was afraid if I let you read it, you'd think I blamed you for what a mess I was. Anyway, it explains a lot."

I can't look at him as he reads it. Instead, I change out of my dress and go about getting ready for bed. I'm about to go brush my teeth when he catches my hand and pulls me to where he's sitting on the bed.

"To answer your question, I've had problems with anxiety as long as I can remember. I started taking medication for it during my campaign for the State Senate at the suggestion of my doctor down in Alton. I don't frequently have panic attacks, but I do have them. That's what the prescriptions are for. As far as this is concerned..." He holds up my letter to Carlisle. "You could have just told me."

I shrug. "Things are weird enough between you and Carlisle without you knowing all the details. Anyway, that's how things were in the beginning. It wasn't long after that he and I began sleeping together. We never defined our relationship, but we did function as a couple. It was naïve of me, but I thought if we weren't technically seeing each other, no one would get hurt. I'm not going to claim what we had wasn't meaningful because it was. But you have to believe me when I tell you what I felt for him was nothing like what I feel for you. He didn't understand why I thought something was missing until he met Esme. If he seemed territorial about me, it's only because he doesn't want to see me get hurt."

He pulls me against his chest and, when he speaks, it's almost too quiet for me to hear.

"He's not the only one."

* * *

**Izzy's letter to Carlisle is in Chapter 25.**


	36. Cellar Aged

**thanks to books and LJ Summers**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Five**  
**Cellar Aged**

* * *

**December 31, 1999**

It's nothing like I thought it would be. Based on what I'd experienced eating at four-star restaurants with Edward and his father, I though the patrons at Jude's would be middle-aged, conservative, and uppity—kind of like Brooks Brothers threw up on them. The people here are entirely different. For one, the age of the clientele is more diverse. Sure, some look enough to be my parents, but there are just as many in their twenties and thirties. There's a formally-attired waitstaff serving wine and dinner, but given what Carlisle's said about his job, I expect that. What catches me off-guard is the crowded dance floor and the DJ spinning Groove Armada. I try to picture Edward out there "shaking that ass". Somehow, I just can't.

"There you are!" Carlisle comes toward me, looking every bit as pulled together as he did the last time I saw him. If he's at all stressed by how things are going, it doesn't show. Then again, the fact he's holding a glass of champagne probably doesn't hurt. "Laurent said I'd find you here."

"Have I done something wrong?"

"What?" There's confusion on his face, then it changes to a smile. "No. Nothing like that."

"I've been up here for a few minutes, just kind of watching. I have a hard time picturing this kind of scene at any of the high-end restaurants I've been to in DC. Is this a Chicago thing?"

He shakes his head, laughing. "It's a me thing."

"I don't follow."

"Most people think you can't have haute cuisine without stuffiness. The atmosphere of most well-respected restaurants doesn't appeal to people our age, regardless of how into food we may be. When I open my own place, I want to incorporate elements of traditional fine dining into more of a club-like setting. Last New Year's Eve, they did the usual holiday bullshit here—a prix fixe menu, three timed seatings, a champagne toast at midnight. They also barely broke even. It took months for me to convince the owners to trust me enough to let me try something new."

He stares into space, intent yet seemingly focused on nothing—much like Alice does when she's lost in thought. When he turns back to me, he catches me staring at him.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Something about your face just then made me think of my best friend back in Washington. I miss her so much."

"Why don't you give her a call?"

"I can't; she's Edward's sister."

His narrowed eyes shift from one side to the other. "So?"

"Am I supposed to tell her how to get in touch with me then ask her not to tell her brother? Considering how close the two of them are, that just doesn't seem fair."

"You know what else isn't fair? Not letting her decide this for herself." He looks down at his watch, then grabs me by the hand. "Come on."

He leads me out of the dining room and down the hall. When we're in front of a closed door, he pulls keys out of his pocket and unlocks it. After a quick look around, he pulls me inside with him, closing the door behind us. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the lighting enough for me to take in my surroundings.

"Is this your office?"

"Uh, no. And as much as I'd like to give you privacy, if anyone finds out I let you in here by yourself, I'll be in deep shit.

"I don't understand."

"See that?" He points to the phone on the desk. "The caller ID is blocked on that line. If she doesn't know where you're calling from, you're not asking her to lie for you."

I open my mouth to thank him, but he's already stepped out into the hall. As he pulls the door closed behind, I pick up the receiver and dial. On the third ring, she answers. It doesn't matter if she's so drunk she slurs her one-word greeting, I think her voice is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

"Hi, Alice. I don't have long—I'm working right now, but I miss you and wanted to wish you a happy new year."

"Oh my god! Izzy? Is that you? What the hell is going on? Do you have any idea how worried we've been?"

"I left you a message. Didn't—"

"Look, I know things were shitty with you and Edward for a while, but you _have_ to know he didn't mean it that way."

"Mean what?"

"Our mother's pearl earrings—he just wanted you to have something of hers that also meant something to him. That's all it was."

Alice keeps talking, but none of her words register. I replay Christmas in my head. If he'd only told me why he was giving them to me, I wouldn't have jumped to conclusions. Everything would be different now. Then again, if he'd been more accepting of our differences—more accepting of me—there wouldn't have been any conclusions to jump to. If I knew the earrings were his mother's, I might not have left when I did. Eventually, though, I'd have left over something else. I know this without a doubt.

"...believe me, Izzy, I know how he gets—but we both know that's not who he _is_. I wish you could see what this is doing to him. You have to know how much he loves you—"

"Please, I can't hear any more." I blink back tears and do my best to keep my voice from breaking. "I can't take this."

"You have to! Don't you get it? I mean, I don't have a fucking clue what you've been off doing this week, but if you'd just listen—"

"I need to go, Alice. I love you, and I'll talk to you soon."

I hang up the receiver with such force, the bell inside the phone lets out a quick chirp. Wiping my cheeks, I take a deep breath and open the door to the hallway. Carlisle is standing there holding our drinks, just like he said he'd be. From off in the distance, I hear voices. That we're nowhere near the dining room doesn't matter—the countdown is loud enough that we may as well be on the center of the dance floor.

_Ten! _  
_Nine!_  
_Eight! _  
_Seven! _  
_Six! _  
_Five! _  
_Four! _  
_Three! _  
_Two! _  
_One! _  
_Happy New Year!_

The cheering and yelling eventually give way to "1999" by Prince.

"Fucking A! Is there anyone on the planet who isn't sick to death of this song by now?" Carlisle shrugs, shaking his head. "That son of a bitch is supposed to be playing 'New Year's Day' by U2. When my boss finds out Jude's welcomed the millenium with a cliché, it won't mean shit that thanks to me we did ten times the profit we did last year—oh no! I'll still be demoted to busboy."

It doesn't matter that I'm almost positive he's joking—the next thing I know, I'm a snot-sobbing mess. In a last-ditch effort to pull myself together, I lower my head and stare at the battle-weary toes of my Docs. Halfway through the song, I still haven't moved. What surprises me is that he hasn't, either.

"Hey." His voice is soft and, when I look up at him, there's only concern on his face. He hands me my champagne flute, then touches his glass to mine. "Happy New Year, Izzy. Despite what you think, it gets better from here; I promise."

"And if it doesn't?"

"I'll stop payment on his check. Or better yet..." His eyes widen and, when he opens his mouth, he's singing. "Hang the DJ! Hang the DJ!"

This time when I try to laugh, my eyes stay dry. I raise my glass to my lips and take a sip.

"Whoa," I say after swallowing. "That's different."

"What did Laurent pour you?"

"Dom Pérignon. I've never had it. It's almost..." I take another sip. "Creamy? Wait, is that even possible?"

"That's the art of wine making."

"It's so different from Veuve Cliquot. I mean, the slightly nutty flavor is the same, but here it's more like almonds."

"Do me a favor? When you go back to the wine cellar, tell Laurent exactly what you just told me."

"Why, so he can make fun of me?"

"He won't; trust me. I need to get back to work. Are you okay?"

"Yes; I can find my own way back to the dining room, and from there, I'm good."

"I'm not talking about that. I mean are you okay?"

My instinct is to lie because it's easier, but then I look at him and his concern seems genuine enough that I want to tell him the truth.

"No," I say, "but I think I will be."

I only hope the same is true for Edward.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 16, 2009**

Long after the rest of the city is asleep, we stay awake talking. As we sit cross-legged on my bed opposite each other with clasped hands, he's clad only in boxers and I in one of his undershirts. It doesn't matter if we're not fully naked—for what is probably the first time ever, we're completely exposed.

"What made you settle down in Alton?"

Laughing, he raises an eyebrow. "We promise complete openness and honesty, and that's what you want to know?"

"I'm starting off with the easy stuff—just think of it as a warm-up question. Besides, it is something I've spent the past few years wondering."

"Fair enough, though the answer is probably exactly what you think it is."

"It was your best shot at being elected to the State Senate?"

"Pretty much—that and it was as far away from my father as I could get without leaving Illinois. It worked out well for me though."

"Because you were elected on your first try?"

"You know..." He pauses and gives my hands a squeeze. "It's not all about politics for me."

"Maybe not now."

"It never was. Anyway, I like living in Alton. I can relax in a way I can't when congress is in session. There aren't cameras everywhere, and no one bothers me."

"Wait. You actually live there?"

"Yes. I'm only in Washington when I have to be."

"Huh." That explains why his apartment there seemed so impersonal. "I'm sorry; I just have a hard time imagining that."

"We'll see if you still feel that way after you've been there with me. Okay, my turn. Why is it so hard for you to talk to me?"

My face heats up in a way it hasn't since I was a teenager.

"What, I don't get a warm-up question?"

He shakes his head, smiling. "I play hardball."

"Apparently."

I try to pull my hands out of his so I can fidget with the hem of my t-shirt, but he doesn't let me.

"No, Izzy," he says. "No more hiding."

"I'm not."

"Then look at me."

"Fine." I raise my eyes to his, keeping my gaze as steady as possible. "It's because you intimidate the hell out of me."

"Then or now?"

I swallow hard. "Both."

If my admission affects him at all, it doesn't show. "Do me a favor?"

I nod.

"Don't let me."

Taking his advice, I ask him something that has been eating away at me for days.

"The night I told you about Carlisle, you said you were angry with yourself for letting your father and me have all the power. I get why you'd feel that way about him, but as far as I'm concerned? I don't understand."

This time, he does react. His eyes close tightly, causing his forehead to wrinkle.

"It's the same for both of you." His ensuing sigh comes out with such force, I feel the damp heat of his breath against my face. "I care what you think of me."

"You care what everyone thinks of you. You always have."

He shakes his head. "To some extent, yes, but mostly just as a means to an end."

And there it is. Coming full circle may have taken us a decade, but it doesn't matter. We're still right back where we started. I don't even bother trying to keep the bitterness from my voice.

"Let me guess—approval ratings."

"No. Just your approval."

* * *

**I posted a few outtakes for my birthday—an _Art After 5_ missing moment, the _Guide to Losing a Player_ wedding night, and a _Fall to Ruin One Day_ scene in Carlisle's point-of-view. They can be found under their respective stories, with the exception of the _Fall to Ruin_ piece. That one is posted under outtakes. **

**I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving. In the crazy rush of everyday, I know I often forget to express my gratitude. This season is always a good reminder to verbalize what's always in my mind and heart.**

**Thank you for everything. **

**C. **


	37. Spilled Coffee

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

**Spilled Coffee**

* * *

**January 1, 2000**

When I open my eyes, the late-afternoon sun is streaming through my window brightly enough that the dust particles in the air look like tiny flecks of gold. I shouldn't feel like a slacker for sleeping in considering how late I worked last night, but I kind of do. Edward's routine is so regimented, I'm used to being awake at the asscrack of dawn regardless of whether or not I need to be. I consider lingering in bed, but then I smell coffee brewing. I make my way toward the kitchen, stopping in the hallway when I hear a voice I don't recognize.

"I can't believe you went through with it. You hate living with other people."

"I hate _working_ for other people more," Carlisle answers. "If last night showed me anything, it's that I'm ready to open my own place. If you could have seen it…Ma, it was amazing—the kind of night out people talk about for years."

I've always thought eavesdropping required some degree of effort on the part of the person listening in; therefore, I'm unwilling to acknowledge that's what I'm doing.

"I'm so proud of you," she says. "You know, if you really believe you're ready, there's no need to wait. You have more than enough money to do this sitting in trust–"

"We've been through this before—just, no. He didn't want me. Why should I want his money?"

"William–"

"Ma, stop it."

I may not know what they're talking about—hell, I may not even really know Carlisle—but I know this isn't a conversation he wants to be having.

"I'm sorry to intrude," I say, stepping into the kitchen. "I just wanted to get some coffee."

"Carlisle didn't tell me he had company." She extends her hand to me, smiling warmly. "I'm Sarah. It's so nice to meet you—my son is always so secretive about his personal life."

Of course she thinks I'm _that_ kind of guest—he's in sleep pants, I'm in one of his old band shirts, and both of us have bed hair.

"This is Izzy," he says, "my roommate."

"Oh?" Her eyes dart from me to Carlisle, then back again.

For a split second, I could swear she looks disappointed.

"Well, I should be on my way."

"Nice to meet you," I say.

"Likewise, Izzy."

He follows his mother to the door. "I'll walk you out."

It doesn't matter that I can no longer see them-I can hear them just as well as I could when they were right beside me.

"No wonder you don't mind having a roommate!"

"It's not like that," he says.

"Hm. Maybe not _yet_. See you later."

When Carlisle reappears, I'm standing there with nothing in my hands and my head angled toward the front door as if I've been…well…eavesdropping, which of course I was. In the rush to make it look like I wasn't, I reach for a teaspoon in the dish rack, knocking my coffee over in the process.

"Sorry about the parental invasion." He gets a dishrag from the drawer and mops up the spill. "You know, despite the fact I'm a twenty-eight-year-old _chef_, my mom thinks I'll starve if she doesn't drop off food once a week. I've been so slammed at work getting ready for New Years Eve, I forgot to tell her you moved in. Anyway, I'm not sure how much you heard…" He runs a hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ears.

His face is flushed, and I can tell he's embarrassed. I'm just not sure over what.

"Uh, how much _did _you hear?"

For a split second, I consider lying. Then I realize I'm not awake enough to come up with a halfway decent one, so I don't bother.

"Enough to know you're a mama's boy with a trust fund that for whatever reason you won't touch."

His mouth drops open but nothing comes out.

"Fuck." I stamp my foot, snap my fingers, and turn my head all at once. "I _knew _I should have lied."

"I don't have a trust fund, but if I did I'd have no problem spending it. The money my mom was talking about…" He rolls his eyes. "Well, that's a long story—and not one I enjoy telling."

Considering how understanding he's been about me not wanting to talk about Edward, the least I can do is offer him the same courtesy.

"That's fine," I say. "I won't pry…"

"Thank you."

"…about _that._ But the fact your mom still cooks for you?" I shake my head. "I'll never let you live that down. Not to mention…"

"What?"

"Maybe it's the fact that I'm still half asleep, but I got the distinct impression your mom was disappointed you and I aren't getting it on."

He shrugs. "She probably was."

"Seriously? Once my mom found a pair of my black panties once and went on a two-hour long tirade about how I was going to burn in hell. I can't imagine having a parent condone promiscuity."

"Believe me, it's nothing like that. She just doesn't want me to end up like her."

I hold out my hand. "And that would be?"

He leans against the kitchen island and takes a sip of coffee. "I'll tell you—but only if you tell me why you left D.C. on Christmas Day with just the shirt on your back."

"Oh." I pick up my mug and head back to my room. "Never mind."

**-o-O-o-**

**December 16, 2009**

I lower my head so he won't see me rolling my eyes. "So much for honesty."

"What makes you think I'm lying?"

"Seriously? I mean…" If I can get past the absurdity of what he's saying, I just might be able to put my thoughts into words. Unfortunately, I just can't. "_Seriously_?"

"Yes," he says.

"Thanks, Alex. I'll take Revisionist History for 200."

"You don't believe me."

"No," I admit.

"Why? What possible reason would I have to lie about this now?"

I let out a long sigh. "I suppose you have a point. Okay, your turn."

"About Carlisle…"

"Yes?"

After threading his fingers through mine, he rests our joined hands on my lap. "I know you well enough to know that whether you verbalize it or not, you're hoping things between him and me go a certain way…" He pauses, brushing his thumbs against my thighs.

"I have no expectations whatsoever; you know this."

"I'm not talking about expectations. In your ideal world, how does this end? Because I'm going to be honest—I can't see us ever being friends."

"Neither can he."

He snorts. "At least we have _that_ in common."

"I'll tell you the same thing I told him—I just want you to accept his place in my life." I see him grimace, and I don't have to think about my next question. "Why are you jealous of him?"

"Because everything he is to you,_ I_ should be—and the worst part is, it's all my fault. Once I realized your inexperience wasn't an act, I shouldn't have let the physical aspect of our relationship progress as quickly as it did. I could say it's because we were sharing a bed and you kept asking me to kiss you, but it's more than that. You were so trusting, so honest. You looked at me as if I already was the person I still fear I'll never be. I wanted to be your lover so badly, I forgot I should also be your friend. So yes, I'm jealous of him. Everything you have with him, I want you to have with me. I want to be your best friend, the one you can count on to be there. I want to be the person you drunk text dirty haiku to, the one you confide in, the one you know won't judge you. But I also want to strip you naked and fuck you senseless. I want you to need me the way I need you." He brings my hand to his mouth, and slowly drags his lips across my knuckles. His eyes close as his sigh warms my skin. "Were you happy with him?"

"I was content."

"What's that supposed to mean?" His voice is as polished as ever, but then he opens his eyes, and I can see his vulnerability.

I tell him the truth without hesitation. "He isn't you."

He pulls me tightly against him and presses his mouth to mine. We promised honesty, and there's nothing more honest than this. Unlike before, we don't make love to avoid having a difficult conversation. We make love because we _had_ that conversation, and we came out of it okay.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 20, 2009**

Fourteen years later, it's the same; I can't take my eyes off him. Standing in front of my bathroom mirror, he's almost out of place. Even as he does something as mundane as brushing his hair, he doesn't seem to belong in such humble surroundings as my bathroom. I watch him from behind, focusing on his reflection rather than the sight of him in the flesh. At the moment, it's better for me to think he isn't real—otherwise, I'd be unable to resist the urge to jump his bones.

"You know…" I lay my hand on the counter and lean into him. "We don't _have_ to go anywhere tonight. I'd be perfectly content staying home."

"I thought you always went to Carlisle and Esme's for Sunday dinner."

"I do."

He laughs. "I'm not going to mess with Sunday dinner."

"It's not Sunday dinner the way you're thinking. Our days off from work are Sunday and Monday, so Sunday is our Saturday. Besides, you and I just had dinner with them Wednesday…" I run my fingers down his chest, stopping when I reach his belt buckle.

"The main reason I came to Chicago rather than inviting you to Alton was because I wanted to see if I could be a part of your normal, everyday life." Making eye-contact with me in the mirror, he points his brush at my reflection. "I think it's safe to say nothing about Wednesday was normal."

"That's my point. Given the tension between you and Carlisle, I don't think a slight change in routine would be the worst thing."

"What tension?"

"Ha ha." I fold my arms across my chest as I lean my lower back against the vanity.

"Come on, Bella. It wasn't _that_ bad. All things considered, it's a miracle neither of us left on a stretcher."

I close my eyes, sighing. "Is that supposed to make me better? I mean, that was before you even knew the whole story. If it took that much effort for you to refrain from trying to kick his ass…"

"_Trying? _Thanks for the vote of no confidence."

"Not trying to bruise your ego here, but Carlisle's a fourth-degree black belt."

"Oh sure." He rolls his eyes, laughing. "_Now_ you tell me. In all seriousness, you're not willing to give up your friendship with him. I'm not willing to give up my relationship with you. If we don't get over the awkwardness of the situation now, it's only going to get worse."

I take the brush from his hand and place it on the counter beside the sink. "There's also a chance Sarah will be there."

"Sarah?"

"Carlisle's mother."

"Oh. Well, that's not a problem."

I brace myself for evidence of sarcasm, but it never comes.

"Seriously? You'd be able to sit across a dinner table from the woman with whom your father cheated on your mother?"

"My father cheated on my mother with _many _women, and it wouldn't be the first time I've had to interact with one of them socially."

"You can tell me if it's too much. I don't want you putting on a brave face for me. You're more important to me than dinner at my friends' house." Wrapping my arms around his waist, I press myself against his chest and breathe in the musky scent of his skin. "You're more important to me than anything."


	38. Sugar Sweetened Battery Acid

**Thanks to books, lj summers, and detochkina.**

**and to jennie_basset, for sharing her inside knowledge of illinois.**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

**Sugar-Sweetened Battery Acid**

* * *

**June 20, 2000**

**-o-O-o-**

When I get home, I'm relieved to find the apartment is empty. I go straight to my room, telling myself I'll feel better when I get out of my work clothes. I don't. I get in the shower, hoping the hot water will soothe more than just my muscles. It doesn't. I come out of the bathroom dripping wet, a towel wrapped loosely around my body for modesty. When I throw myself onto my bed, I'm wet enough that my sheets stick to me.

It will all be better if I hear his voice. I'm halfway through dialing his number when it hits me. If he doesn't want to hear from me, calling will accomplish nothing besides ruin his birthday.

I hang up the phone. As much as I miss him, I'm not that selfish.

"Izzy? Are you there?"

Startled by Carlisle's voice, I bolt up in bed, leaving the towel down around my waist.

"Yes."

I'm trying to cover myself when he pushes the door open.

"Uh, whoa." He backs out of my room, pulling the door closed behind him. "Sorry."

When I throw on clothes and meet him in the living room, I don't have to ask what he saw. I can tell by the way he's acting he saw everything.

The crazy thing is, I'm too busy missing Edward to care.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 20, 2009**

Shivering, I rummage through my purse. "Found them!" I slide the key into the lock and open Carlisle and Esme's front door.

"Do you always just let yourself in?" Edward asks, following me inside.

"I do when they're expecting me." I shrug out of my coat and hang it in the closet by the door, then gesture for Edward to give me his. "Besides, I used to live with them."

He looks appalled. "Both of them together?"

"No, separately. They're probably in the kitchen. Come on." I head to the back of the house, pulling him with me. When we pass through the dining room, I notice there are only four places set at the table.

When we get to the kitchen, Esme looks up from the pot she's stirring and smiles. "I thought I heard your voices. Carlisle had to pick up something at Manna for this week's column; he should be back any minute now."

"Column?" Edward asks.

"He writes a weekly column on vegetarian cooking for one of the locavore blogs." I turn to Esme. "Is Sarah still pissed at me?"

"I don't think so. I mean, if she is she didn't mention it," she says.

"Then why isn't she coming?" I ask.

"She didn't want to make Edward uncomfortable."

"She wouldn't," he says. "My father on the other hand..." Shaking his head, he fakes a shiver.

"There's no risk of running into him here," Esme says, laughing. "In all seriousness, I'm relieved to hear you say that. Now I just have to convince her she's welcome at Izzy's on Christmas, and hopefully things will start to get back to normal around here."

"Fuck." I close my eyes, sighing. "I haven't officially invited her. I didn't want to call her if she was still mad at me."

Esme picks a baby carrot up from a plate on the counter and throws it at my head. "Pussy."

"I'm sorry! You know how much I love her. If I called and she gave me the cold shoulder, I don't think I could take it."

"There's an easy solution," Edward says, taking his phone out of his pocket. "What's her number?"

Esme tells him, and he dials.

Meanwhile, I catch flies with my mouth.

"Hello, Sarah? It's Edward...Cullen...You know, Isabella's boyfriend?" He laughs. "Senator Cullen works, too. I know—I wouldn't expect to hear from me, either. Isabella lost her voice, so I'm inviting people to Christmas dinner on her behalf. Will you be joining us?... Great—peanut butter is my favorite. We'll see you then." He ends the call and puts his phone back into his pocket. "She's coming. She's also bringing cookies."

"Thank you, Edward," Esme says. "That went above and beyond."

"I know how it feels to spend holidays alone. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

_Ouch._

"Well..." She reaches across the kitchen island squeezes his hand. "I think it's safe to say that's not something you need to worry about anymore."

"Wait, what's the headcount for Christmas dinner now?" I do a quick mental tally. "Seven? That's going to be a tight squeeze at my place."

"We can have it here if you'd like."

"Let me think about it. I know Edward's looking forward to watching me cook." I leave out the part about being naked except for one of his shirts. "Then again, I could cook Christmas Eve." I look at Edward.

"It's up to you," he says.

"Know what the best part of having it here would be?" she asks. "You'd be able to excuse yourself if things get...well..."

"Tense?" I offer.

"You know holidays can bring out the worst in people..." She stops when the security system chimes. "That must be Carlisle. Have him pour you cocktails while I finish up."

Edward and I return to the living room to find Carlisle hanging up his coat.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, kissing my cheek. "The thing with making a quick trip to work is that there's no such thing as a quick trip to work." He offers Edward his hand. "Senator."

"Good evening, Carlisle."

There's no warmth to their greeting—if anything, it reeks of obligation. I kick off my shoes and plop down on the loveseat.

"Oh, sure," Carlisle says. "Make yourself at home."

"Don't mind if I do." I pat the cushion beside me, and Edward takes a seat.

Carlisle sits opposite us on the sofa."We got a huge wine shipment at Manna this week."

"Manna?" Edward asks.

"That's Carlisle's vegetarian restaurant," I explain. "Everything they serve is locally grown—including the wine."

"I brought a few bottles home. In fact, I put your favorite Chardonel on ice before I ran out."

"Ooh." I bounce in my seat. "When will it be ready to pour?"

"By the time we sit down to eat. Now Izzy, you'd better pace yourself. I know your history with Chardonel. The last thing we need is a repeat of the '06 Illinois Wine Conference."

Edward narrows his eyes. "Dare I ask?"

"It's not as bad as he's making it sound. Carlisle had to carry me out of the Springfield Hilton, and he's never let me live it down."

"No." Carlisle shakes his head. "The entire Illinois wine community won't let her live it down. It doesn't help that she kept referring to their board of directors as _les coqs au vin._"

"Wait a second." I hold up my index finger. "Carlisle's not giving you the whole story. First of all, I didn't think anyone could hear me–"

"You were sitting on a tasting panel _and _there was a microphone in front of you."

"I didn't know it was turned on!" I turn to Edward. "You used to live in Springfield. I'm sure you know what the Hilton looks like?"

He nods. "Locals call it the Penis on the Prairie."

"That's what I'm saying! It lends itself to cock jokes—hell, I would have made them sober. Anyway, I challenge anyone to taste _that _much wine and not get trashed."

"Ah, but I _did _taste that much wine," Carlisle says, "and I didn't have so much as a buzz."

"That's different and you know it." Looking at Edward, I point to Carlisle. "After _he _tasted, he spit."

Carlisle flashes an evil smile. "And you know Izzy—she always swallows."

I fake a cough. "Okay, moving on."

Ever the politician, Edward deftly changes the subject.

"Does Esme play?" he asks, gesturing to the piano.

"No," Carlisle says, "I do."

And there it is—something I never thought I'd experience in Carlisle's presence. Awkward silence. There's only one thing I can think of that could possibly help.

"Would anyone care to join me for a cocktail?"

Carlisle bolts to the liquor cabinet. "So, Edward, what can I get you? I know Izzy 's having armagnac."

"I'll have the same," Edward says.

"Really?" I try to hide my surprise.

"I still maintain it tastes the way I imagine a sugar cube would after being wholly dissolved in battery acid, but I'm willing to give it another try since you love it so much." His eyes lock on Carlisle. "Anything important to Isabella has a place in my life—even if I don't understand what she sees in it."

Carlisle meets Edward's steely gaze with a smile. "I know exactly what you're saying, and I couldn't agree more."

_Oh, __brotherfucking hell._

I open my mouth to try to smooth things over, then decide against it. They're adults and, whether they want to or not, they have a relationship with each other outside of their respective relationships with me. Edward's a big boy—hell, he's a United States Senator. He can be held responsible for his own snark. Then again, Carlisle started it.

"I'm going to see if Esme needs any help in the kitchen," Edward says, rising to his feet. "If you'll excuse me..."

Once he's out of earshot, I go over to Carlisle and smack him on the arm.

"Ow! What the hell was that for?"

"You promised me you'd behave!"

"I _am _behaving."

"Right." I lower my voice an octave, imitating Carlisle. "_Izzy always swallows._"

"That shouldn't be news to him."

I smack him again. "That's not the point and you know it. Just...how could you..." I shrug my shoulders and flail my arms. "Gah!"

"What you need is a drink."

"No, what I _need_ is to check on my boyfriend. Excuse me." I'm halfway down the hallway when I hear Edward's voice.

"I'm sorry," he's saying. "I offered to help with dinner because I wanted to get out of the living room. The Carlisle-Izzy comedy hour was starting to get old. I should warn you—I'm a complete failure in the kitchen."

I don't _plan _on eavesdropping, but for whatever reason, my feet stay frozen in place.

"In fact," he continues, "I'm bad at just about everything that seems to come naturally to you—cooking, wine, pretending it doesn't bother me that my girlfriend used to sleep with your husband."

"What makes you think I'm pretending?" Esme asks.

"How can you not be? You see the way they are with each other—the flirting, the innuendos, the way they look at each other—there's a lot of emotion between them."

"There should be. They were together nearly seven years."

"And you trust him not to–"

"Do I strike you as the kind of woman who'd marry a man who was hung up on my best friend?"

"No." He sighs. "How did it end?"

"Carlisle wanted a commitment. When Izzy wouldn't give him one, he moved out. Look, I understand why it bothers you. But if they wanted to be together they would be."

I feel guilty as I make my way to where Edward's standing in the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" I ask, wrapping my arms around him.

He presses a kiss against my forehead. "Yes. I daresay I'm the most relaxed I've been all week."

If the rest of the evening is tense, I don't notice. I'm too busy wondering how I got so lucky.


	39. Ratzenberger Steeger St Jost

**Thanks to books, lj summers, and detochkina.**

**and to josh, pinch-hitting proofreader extraodinaire. love you.**

* * *

******Chapter Thirty-Eight  
Ratzenberger Steeger St. Jost**

* * *

**November 23, 2000**

"You're just letting yourself in?"

Carlisle takes a step back from the door, looking at me as if I have two heads. "Uh, this is my mom's house."

"I know, but still. I don't even have a key to my mom's house. The last time I visited, she made a point of not giving me one—god forbid I could come and go as I please. And my dad..." I remember flying home this year for my birthday. I'd be hard-pressed to think of a time in my life I felt less welcome. "Let's just say I ended up getting a room at the Dew Drop Inn."

"Oh." He raises his arm and, for a fraction of a second, I think he's going to hug me. Instead, he pushes his mother's front door open and gestures for me to go inside. "Ladies first."

I cross the threshold not knowing if I'm disappointed or relieved.

"We're here," Carlisle calls from behind me.

"Izzy!" Sarah rushes into the foyer and gives me a hug. "So glad you decided to join us!"

"Thank you for inviting me."

"Of course. I'm just sorry you weren't able to fly home to be with your family."

In reality I didn't want to—my plans were to stay in the apartment, watch old movies, and maybe make a small turkey breast all the while trying not to think about how if Edward and I were still together, it would be our fifth anniversary. He said the first holiday away from family was always the hardest, but I barely noticed being away from them. It's my first holiday without _him_ that's killing me.

Faking a smile, I hand Sarah the bottle of wine I brought. "This is for you."

"Ratzenberger Steeger St. Jost?" she asks, reading the label.

"It's a dry German Riesling," I say. "I think it will go well with the turkey."

"I _know_ it will go well with the turkey." Carlisle steps out from behind me and kisses Sarah on the cheek. "Izzy has great instinct when it comes to wine; she just has to start trusting it."

"He's right," she says. "You wouldn't be working with Laurent now if you didn't."

"No, I'm still just an assistant server. I'm learning a lot though and hoping that with all the reorganization going on at Jude's I'll have a chance to move up."

Sarah shoots Carlisle a pointed look I don't entirely understand.

"We haven't had a chance to talk to about it yet," he says to her. "Things have been crazy."

"Oh. Well, I should put this on ice so it will be chilled in time for dinner. Everyone else is in the living room." She hurries off, leaving me alone with Carlisle.

"Let me take your coat," he says.

I manage to pull off my gloves and scarf before my curiosity gets the better of me. "What is it that we haven't had a chance to talk about?"

"Impending staff changes at Jude's."

"Oh." I take off my coat and shove the rest of my cold-weather gear into one of its sleeves. Sighing, I hand it to Carlisle. "I'm not holding my breath. You know Georges is a misogynistic fuck. As long as he's in charge..." I shrug.

"He won't always be."

"I guess. It's hard to look forward to something that may never happen."

"You won't be clearing tables forever."

"I know," I say. "And once I have a full year's experience, I'll to start look for a job somewhere with more room for advancement."

"You won't have to look far."

He turns his back to me as he hangs both of our coats in the closet. His shoulders are broad like Edward's, and for a moment I wish he had hugged me before and not just because of how much I miss physical affection. Out of everything I've managed to create for myself in this post-Edward pseudo-life, I value Carlisle's friendship the most.

He's smiling when he faces me again. "Come on. I'll introduce you to my grandparents."

I follow him into the living room, grateful for the distraction small talk with strangers will provide. And if it doesn't, there's always wine.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 24, 2009**

Edward holds up a cluster of grapes made from tiny red crystals. "I'm starting to sense a theme here."

"You think?" I say, laughing. "I mean, didn't the garland of corks strung together tip you off?"

"Actually, no. I figured you were still just putting anything you could find up on the tree, like you used to." He hangs the grapes on the tree and reaches into the storage for more ornaments. "Yet another bottle of wine. Why am I not surprised?"

"What can I say? I'm nothing if not consistent."

"Indeed." He rummages through the box of ornaments. "I can't remember the last time I did this. I'd forgotten how fun it can be."

"Don't let Alice hear you say that. I can't imagine what kind of holiday hell she would drag you into with her."

"I'd mind less than you think. Well, provided she didn't torture me with that god-awful Christmas music she seems to love so much."

I laugh; I can't help it.

"It makes no sense," he continues. "She has good taste in everything but music—and the holiday music she likes is the worst. It's all that schmaltzy crap, the more melodramatic the better. When I saw her before flying out here to see you, she was playing that song about the shoes. You have to know the one I'm talking about—the mother is dying and her son is out shopping so she'll look pretty when she goes to heaven? Alice was sitting at the kitchen table bawling. I teased her; I couldn't help it. She asked me how I could be so heartless considering the way our mother cried the Christmas before she died because she didn't feel pretty. In actuality, my mother had just found out about Carlisle. Feeling pretty was the least of her concerns at the time, but I didn't tell Alice that."

"Maybe you should have. The thing about Alice is that she's incredibly strong." _And perceptive_, I add silently.

"She also worships our father."

I shrug. "Sooner or later, we all have that moment where we realize our parents are just people. I'm not sure you're doing her any favors by postponing the inevitable."

"I'm not planning to keep it from her indefinitely. I will tell her. It's just..." He shakes his head. "She's given up a lot for me over the years. This Christmas is something I can give her. Besides, if I know my sister, she'll want space away from our father while she processes it all. Telling her while she's staying under his roof will only make it worse." He turns his attention back to the box of ornaments on the floor beside him. "Well," he says, holding up a piece of cheese. "This one's different."

"Here." I hang it on the tree next to one of the wine ornaments. "It goes best with Riesling."

He nods as he smiles—it's the smile that makes me want to rip his clothes off.

"Do you put up a tree every year?" He leans back on his elbows, stretching his legs out in front of him. "I haven't had one since... well, let's just say it's been awhile."

"I do, yes. In the beginning, it was under duress."

"From whom?"

"Who do you think?" Not wanting to say his name probably makes me a pussy, but I don't care. I want tonight to be about Edward and me, and it won't if I mention Carlisle.

"Oh." For a moment, his shoulders seem to tense. "So what goes on top?"

I smile. "I do, but you know this."

He laughs. "I meant the top of the tree, you dirty girl."

"I don't have anything. It always seemed to me like it should be something symbolizing what mattered most to me. Putting your senator on the tree...that's kind of psycho."

"Is that where you want me?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I'd rather have you inside me."

He pulls me against him and flips me onto my back. There's nothing gentle about his kiss—it's passionate and rough, demanding even. By the time Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day, we're joined as one and I'm the most at peace I've ever been. In his arms, there's nothing we can't face.

Not even Christmas.**  
**


	40. Off Dry

**huge thanks to regina. **

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

**Off-Dry**

* * *

**December 25, 2000**

Still half-asleep, I stumble out of my bedroom into a silent apartment. Part of me wishes I went to Sarah's with Carlisle so I wouldn't spend the day wallowing. Then again, wallowing sounds pretty good right about now.

I'm halfway to the kitchen when I hear Carlisle's voice.

"Merry Christmas."

"Holy fuck!" I trip over my feet and crash into the wall. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Clearly," he says, laughing.

"I wasn't expecting you—I_ thought_ you spent the night at your mom's."

He shrugs. "I forgot my toothbrush."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Okay, fine. But if I told you I didn't want you to spend Christmas morning by yourself, you'd only get annoyed with me."

"You know I'm not close to my family the way you are to yours. Spending holidays without them really doesn't bother me."

"I didn't come home because I thought you'd be missing your family."

I lean against the wall, folding my arms across my chest.

"Look," he continues, "whatever happened last Christmas compelled you to pick up and move halfway across the country. I don't have to know the specifics..." He shakes his head, sighing. "...but I know it couldn't have been good."

"I broke up with my boyfriend—that's all. People end relationships all the time; life goes on. It's not worth you rearranging your Christmas plans to babysit me."

"You're right; _it _isn't. Then again _you_ are, and that's why I'm here."

I'm not sure why I start crying but I do, and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to stop.

"Come here." He leads me to the living room sofa, pulling me into his arms as he sits. "I know it doesn't seem that way now, but it does get better."

I want to ask him how he can be so sure and if he's ever loved someone with everything he has only to have things fall apart anyway, but I don't. I feel strangely at peace in his arms and, selfish though it may be, I'm afraid talking will ruin it.

We stay like this—with me on his lap and his arms around my waist—long after my face is dry. At one point, I think I feel his lips against the back of my head. I'm nowhere near ready for it, but I find myself wondering what it would be like if he kissed me for real.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 25, 2009**

Despite the fact I'm not nearly as drunk as I want to be, so far Christmas hasn't been bad. Edward and Carlisle have barely spoken to each other, but considering what tends to happen when they do, I'm not about to complain. Then Sarah arrives and things are every bit as awkward as I feared they'd be, but not because of Edward—when they meet, he greets her warmly and right away she's at ease. If anyone is giving her the cold shoulder, it's Carlisle. I wait until the others are engrossed in conversation before pulling him outside with me. I fold my arms across my chest in an attempt to stay warm, but it's useless. The night air is every bit as frigid as his demeanor.

"If you need to clear your head already, you'll never make it through dinner," he says.

"This isn't about me."

"Since you came back from Thanksgiving in D.C., _everything _has been about you."

"Because I love you and I know you're dealing with a lot, I'm going to ignore the fact you're being a dick..."

"Great!" He claps his hands together. "Let's go inside now."

"...to _me_."

"So this must be about Edward. What has him pissed off now?"

I roll my eyes. "Could the fact you're avoiding your mom be any more obvious?"

"Absolutely—but since it's Christmas and there are civilians present, I'm toning it down."

I open my mouth to speak then think better of it.

He throws his hands in the air. "What?"

"Like you just said—it's Christmas."

"And she's been lying to me my whole life. You'll have to forgive me if it takes longer than a couple weeks for me to forgive her."

"So she lied, big fucking deal. Tell me something—how would you have felt knowing the truth? That while your mother was struggling to put food on the table in Lincoln Square, your father was living in a mansion in Lincoln Park?"

He shakes his head. "Don't start."

"I just don't see where being angry at your mother accomplishes anything."

"Are you serious? Haven't you ever been..."

When he stops speaking, I follow his gaze to the sidewalk. The woman walking toward us looks nothing like the one I left in D.C. last month, but it doesn't matter—I'd still know her anywhere.

"Alice!" I run across the front yard and hug her.

"Sorry I'm late," she says. "You wouldn't believe what a bitch it was to travel today."

"You're here now—that's all that matters." As my arm brushes against the nape of her neck, short hair tickles my skin. "I've never seen your hair so short...or so blond!"

"Eh." She shrugs. "It was time for a change."

"Well, it looks fabulous. Come on," I say, pulling her toward Carlisle. "There's someone I want you to meet."

She rushes ahead of me and, though I had every intention of introducing them, I don't get the chance. Before I can even open my mouth to speak, she's got her arms around him. I can't hear what she's saying to him but whatever it is, it makes him laugh. Though he doesn't say anything as we go inside the house, I don't have to wonder what he's thinking—the expression on his face is one I know all too well.

He loves her already.

* * *

**Wishing you and your loved ones all the joy the season can bring. **

The next chapter picks up right where we left off and will probably post on December 27.


	41. Shirley Temples

**thanks to lj summers, books, and detochkina. **

* * *

**Chapter Forty**

**Shirley Temples**

* * *

**December 25, 2000**

For a moment, I think he _will_ kiss me. Just when I think he's going to move closer, he leans back against the couch and pats my hip. Though I recognize the gesture for what it is—a non-verbal request for me to get off his lap—I play dumb. I miss physical affection more than anything, and with Carlisle I don't have to worry about him getting the wrong idea, even if sometimes I wish he would.

"I made cinnamon rolls while you were sleeping," he says, "and there's a fresh pot of coffee."

It's a simple gesture, for him at least. He may be able to whip together pastries from scratch in less time than it takes me to blowdry my hair, but that doesn't change the fact it means the world to me.

"If you think plying me with caffeine and sugar will make me feel better..." I laugh. "Well, you're right."

"It hasn't failed me yet," he says, bouncing me on his knee.

Once again, I pretend not to get the hint. Instead, I tighten my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder.

"Neither have you."

**-o-O-o-**

**December 25, 2009**

When Edward first sees Alice, his mouth catches flies.

"Whoa," he says, gesturing to her hair. "It's been so long since I've seen your real hair color, I'd forgotten what it looked like."

She laughs. "Yeah, you and me both."

"Where's Jasper?" he asks, hugging her.

"I imagine he's in Texas with his family."

"What do you mean, you imagine?"

"It's not like I watched him get on the plane."

Edward's eyes shift the way they do when he's about to roll them before he bows his head toward Alice's shoulder, effectively hiding his face. His expression is blank when he looks up, but the opened collar of his white button-down shirt exposes the frantic pulse of his jugular vein, letting me know it's all a facade. I wonder if it was the same ten years ago—if even then there was evidence of what was boiling beneath his cool surface but I was too young and too dense to notice.

Still holding Alice's hands, he takes a step away from her and studies her face.

"Perhaps I missed something," he says, "but when I left D.C., you _were_ part of his family."

"Can we talk about this later?"

Her voice has the same cheerful, bell-like quality it always does, but there's something in her eyes that doesn't ring true.

"What did he do?" he asks.

"What makes you think _he_ did anything?" She pulls her hands away from his and starts to unbutton her coat. "Please tell me there are more pleasant things for us to talk about than why I'm here alone."

Alice looks at Edward who looks at me. I look over at Carlisle, who's using his hand to muffle what I assume is a snort. I shoot him the Look of Death, then turn back to Alice.

"Of course there are," I say, taking her coat. "Let me introduce you to Esme and Sarah."

**-o-O-o-**

"Well..." Edward gets up from his the sofa, slapping his hands against his thighs as he straightens his legs. "I should see if Esme needs any help in the kitchen."

Recent history tells me this is Edward-speak for _I need to get away from you and Carlisle before I break something,_ so I study his face, hoping to figure out what upset him. In this instance, the usual triggers don't apply—since Alice arrived, Carlisle's been on his best behavior. Hell, he's barely even spoken—for the past half hour, he's been playing Christmas carols on the piano at Alice's request.

Edward must feel me staring at him. Just as he's about to leave the room, he turns and smiles at me, ever so slightly nodding his head toward Alice.

He's not upset with me; he wants me to find out what the hell is going on with his sister.

I follow Alice's gaze across the room to the piano. As long as she's focused on Carlisle, I can focus on her. She's too thin and too pale, and though she hasn't behaved any differently than usual, something about the way she's been carrying herself makes me think she hasn't gotten a good night's sleep in days. If she _has_ broken up with Jasper for real, if they're not apart right now because of something silly that got blown out of proportion, I know all too well why she wouldn't want to talk about it. Then again, I also know why she would.

Even though Carlisle's in the room, the lid is open on the baby grand. There's no way he'll be able to hear us. Now is as good a time as ever.

"Alice..." I inch myself across the sofa cushion toward her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Without missing a beat, she angles her head toward the piano. "He's very good. I could listen to him forever—live music is so soothing."

"He'd play guitar for me when we lived together. Sometimes in the beginning..." My eyes close as I empty my lungs in a drawn-out sigh.

I've never told Alice what it was like for me to move out here, mostly because I know how much my leaving Edward hurt her. I also know how much my leaving Edward hurt _me_. There's a chance talking about it now will upset her; our friendship is able to exist in the present mostly because we make it a point not to talk about the past. But I remember those days and how much I wished I could talk to her, and I know I have to take the risk—just in case she's going through the same thing and she's wishing she could talk to me.

"In the beginning," I say, "those were the only times I was able to stop obsessing over what Edward was doing and just _be_."

"Carlisle plays guitar, too?"

If anything, she seems to be wishing I could take a hint.

"He plays just about everything. Once in a while, he still does paid gigs."

"That's surprising. I assumed he didn't like having an audience given the way I had to practically beg him to play."

"That's just because he's in a bad mood."

She laughs, then quickly covers her mouth with her hand. "Gee, I wonder why."

"Huh?"

"Don't be dense, Izzy. Hosting a holiday dinner is a lot of work even when it's just for family. Carlisle's also been asked to entertain two strangers. I'm not a big deal. Edward is a United States Senator with such a rabid following, there are whole Tumblr blogs devoted solely to pictures of his ass. I don't care how many restaurants Carlisle owns—the thought of paparazzi in his yard _has_ to be stressing him out. Are you really so wrapped up in Edward this hasn't occurred to you?"

"Devoted to his ass? Really?"

All those years I was too stubborn to Google him, it turns out this is what I missed? Part of me is legitimately outraged. The rest wishes there was a way to pull up Tumblr on my phone without anyone noticing.

"Yes. They started after the _People_ magazine article."

"Would-be bubble-butt rimming cum-blr sluts!"

"Whoa, Izzy." Carlisle stops playing and looks over at us. "To what do we owe that outburst?"

"Since when does Izzy need a reason?" Alice gets up from the couch and sits beside Carlisle on the piano bench. "By the way, thank you for playing tonight. Edward makes fun of me for it, but I've always loved Christmas songs."

"I leave the room for five minutes and already my sister's telling lies about me," Edward says, reclaiming the seat next to me. "I make fun of her for liking over-the-top, sentimental crap, and Christmas music generally falls into this category."

Alice turns to Carlisle. "He doesn't realize my passion for Christmas music has nothing to do with sentimentality and everything to do with egoism. Just about every Christmas song out there—well, the traditional ones at least—they all have my name in them."

Carlisle laughs. "I'm calling bullshit on this one. Outside of _Alice's Restaurant, _which is about Thanksgiving, I can't think of a single holiday song with your name in it."

"I'm not talking about Alice—that's my middle name. My first name is Mary, I started going by Alice in high school when I found out about the curse."

Edward rolls his eyes. "Here we go."

"Shut up, Edward. It's real and you know it."

"Of course it is," Edward says. "I mean, she asked the oracle. Magic 8-Balls are truth."

"You can make fun of me all you want." Alice folds her arms across her chest. "But you know as well as I do that everyone ever named Mary in our family has been batshit crazy."

"Present company included." Edward takes a swig of his scotch. "Besides, lunacy is subjective."

"Our great-aunt died in an asylum after being lobotomized—that's as cut and dry as it gets. But anyway..." Alice lets out an exaggerated sigh. "That's why I don't let people call me Mary. There's an association there I don't want, if that makes any sense."

Carlisle laughs. "Makes sense to me. Then again, I go by my middle name, too. My first name is William."

"Really?" she asks. "That's my father's name."

He swallows hard, but his smile doesn't waver. "Mine, too."

**-o-O-o-**

When we return to the living room, we're in much better spirits, our moods lightened by the consumption of...well...spirits. The mood is subdued enough that at some point during after-dinner drinks, Alice falls asleep.

I shake my head, laughing. "If she didn't look so peaceful, I'd wake her ass up to make fun of her for being such a lightweight."

"You can't get drunk from Shirley Temples," Carlisle says, "and that's what she's been having all night. We should let her sleep; she obviously needs it. Though..." He turns to Edward. "She can't be comfortable with her neck bent like that. If you think she'd like to lie down in the guest room until your car gets here, I'll go make the bed for her."

Edward looks at him like he's on crack.

Carlisle turns up his palms, shrugging. "What?"

"Thank you; that's very considerate." Edward crosses the room and kneels in front of where Alice is sleeping. "Hey there," he whispers.

She doesn't respond.

"Alice?" He nudges her gently. "Would you like to lie down in the guest room for a bit?"

Nothing.

"Alice?"

He lifts her arm. The second he lets go, it falls onto her lap with a thud.

"Alice?" With his thumb and forefinger, he opens one of her eyes, then the other. "Why are you all just standing there? Someone call 911!"

* * *

**Sorry for the delay. Sick children, a death in the family—it's been a rough month, and this chapter was too important to rush.**

**Thank you for reading.**


	42. Dextrose and Saline

Thanks to LJ Summers, Bookishqua, and Detochkina.

And to Giselle-lx and Kimpy0464.

* * *

**Chapter Forty-One**

**Dextrose and Saline**

* * *

**December 31, 2000**

"Izzy, after you clock in, would you come see me in the office?"

Shit. I've been here less than a minute, and Carlisle's already pissed at me. I follow him down the hallway telling myself not to panic, that he's the same guy whose shaving cream I stole this morning. Then again, _that _guy isn't in a position to stick me with dish duty.

It's been this way the entire year. At home, I feel completely relaxed with him—more so than I ever was with Edward—largely because he's so laid back. But here he's the boss, and with the rare exception of when we're alone, his demeanor never lets me forget it. I didn't expect him to treat me any differently—he can't play favorites at the restaurant. But he _does_ treat me differently, just not in a good way. Take being late for work. The rest of the staff has a ten minute grace period. If I'm even a minute late, he messes with my schedule. Every time I try to confront him about it, I always wuss out.

"Have a seat," he says, pulling the door closed behind him. "Laurent was supposed to be here for this, but he's stuck in traffic."

"Am I in trouble?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

He must have left his serious business executive chef hat out in the hall—unlike five minutes ago, he's not acting like he has a great big stick up his ass.

"Just wanted to make sure you knew that even if this is your first night in your new job, I still want you to come find me at midnight. Laurent won't mind—he can do without an assistant for ten minutes or so."

"So I'm in the wine cellar tonight."

"You're in the wine cellar until you decide you want out of the wine cellar."

"Is this for real?"

He smiles. "Believe me, I wouldn't joke about this."

Screaming, I leap from my chair and throw my arms around him. "Thank you."

"You have to understand I didn't–"

The door flies open, and in strolls Laurent. "What have I missed?"

Carlisle can't move away from me fast enough.

"Nothing; we were just getting started." He crosses the room and takes the seat behind the desk. "Izzy, I'd like to formally offer you the position of beverage service assistant."

**-o-O-o-**

Ten minutes before midnight, I climb the wine-cellar stairs holding two glasses of champagne. I took the liberty of pouring one for Carlisle; after all, tonight there's something worth toasting. My eyes find him right away, standing with his back to me a few feet from the bar. I move toward him as quickly as I can without spilling. I'm in such a better place than I was a year ago, and I know that's largely thanks to him. Seeing as Alice is eight hundred miles away in D.C., Carlisle is it as far as "celebrating with friends" goes. Besides, tonight is a milestone we _should_ celebrate together. I'm the happiest I've been since leaving Washington, and it's entirely due to him. Just as I open my mouth, he shifts to the side, and I see _her_.

If she weren't a restaurant patron, I'd have no problem interrupting. After all, he told me to find him at midnight. But she is, so all I can do is linger by the door to the wine cellar and wait for her to leave. She's not at all subtle about what she wants. Giggling, she takes a step closer to him and rests her hand against his upper arm. And instead of removing it, the way he usually would, he leans in and laughs.

I lean against the wall, not entirely able to believe what I'm seeing. It's not that some gorgeous redhead is flirting with him—women are always hitting on him at work. Usually, he keeps it all-business and eventually they get the hint. It's that he's flirting back.

In the year I've known Carlisle, I've never once seen him take an interest in a member of the opposite sex, and part of me realizes I should be happy Carlisle's met someone he seems to like.

The other part of me? Wants to claw a bitch. It shouldn't be her touching him right now.

It should be me.

She finally takes her hand off his arm and reaches into her purse for a business card, which she presses into his palm before leaving. He puts it in his pocket, keeping his eyes fixed on her as she walks toward the dining room. It isn't until she crosses in front of me that he notices me standing here. Right away, his lustful gaze becomes a sheepish smile. After a moment of hesitation, he approaches me.

"Sorry about that." He runs his hand over his ponytail, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

I don't make eye contact as I hand him his glass. I feel bad enough about what I was just thinking; if he knew about it, it would only make things worse.

"How are things going in the wine cellar?" he asks.

"Fine."

"Then what's wrong?"

"It's a couple minutes to midnight. If you'd rather..." I angle my head toward the dining room. "I didn't see where she went, but I'm sure you could catch up with her."

"No."

"If you say so. I mean, it's New Year's Eve, and she was into you, and you didn't seem to mind the attention."

"Izzy..." He sighs. "She's pretty, and I noticed. That's all."

"I just don't want you to miss out because you feel as if you have to babysit me all the time."

"I'm not missing out on anything."

"I don't know. " I stare at my champagne, focused at the bubbles beneath the surface. They all get out eventually; some just take longer than others. "In all the time we've been roommates, you've never brought anyone home."

He laughs. "As if you have."

"My situation is different. You must have needs."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Don't give me that," I say. "I _know_ you know what I mean."

"Oh, I know_ exactly_ what you mean—and I'm trying really hard not to get pissed at you for it."

"I didn't mean to offend you–"

"Of course you didn't. Never mind the fact you implied that just because I have a penis, I must want to put it in every women who's willing. How was that _not_ supposed to offend me? After the way my—that _asshole_—treated my mother…" He trails off, but his jaw is set. "I'm not like that."

"I'm not saying you are. Come on—we live together. I know it's been a while since you..."

He grunts. "So what about _your_ needs?"

My face heats up. "Like I said, my situation is different. Anyway, I saw the way you were looking at her. And since you and I are just friends, but with her there may be potential for more, I don't want you to feel as if you have to be ..."

"Izzy..." He takes a step toward me. He's close enough to touch me but doesn't. "I'd rather be with you."

**-o-O-o-**

**January 1, 2001**

When we get home from work we're both exhausted, but I insist we toast my new job anyway. We flop onto the couch with our glasses, and before we know it, we're opening a second bottle. I'm the most relaxed I've been since I moved out here, and the combination of five glasses of wine and promotion euphoria makes me feel invincible enough to broach _that _subject.

"You know," I say, pouring myself another glass. "It's not exactly easy working with you since you became executive chef."

Carlisle smiles. "I never said it would be."

"I get that, but seriously. There are days I swear if you rode my ass any harder, OSHA would require handrails."

"Come on," he says, laughing. "I'm not _that_ bad."

"Bullshit. You hold me to a higher a standard than the rest of the staff. I don't think it's intentional. You probably don't even even know you do it–"

"Oh, believe me—I _know_ I'm doing it."

"Then what the fuck?"

"Shit." Since the health department doesn't inspect our apartment, his ponytail was gone the instant we crossed the threshold, spilling his hair around his open collar. He runs his hand through it, letting out a long sigh. "I'm not really sure how to say this. When Laurent requested a full-time assistant, you were his first choice for the job–"

"I know; he told me."

"But ultimately, it was my decision and I had serious reservations about promoting you." He holds up his hands. "Now before you get upset, hear me out. I had my reasons, none of which had anything to do with you. I know how serious you are about breaking into the industry, that you're thinking in terms of a career–"

"And this is a bad thing? All this time you've been saying I should trust you, that you're looking out for my best interests–"

"What the hell do you think I've _been_ doing? It's hard enough for women to work their way through the ranks of the restaurant industry; wine is even worse. Do you think it's any coincidence that until I took over the only female employees at Jude's were hostesses and assistant servers? I've worked there four years and let me tell you, it wasn't because of a lack of qualified applicants."

I roll my eyes. "That's just Georges being a chauvinistic asshole."

"Izzy, they're all like that. Believe me, If Laurent didn't already know you, you wouldn't have stood a chance. Honestly, the best thing for you career-wise would have been for you to get a similar position at a different restaurant. For months Laurent and I called in favors trying to find you one. In the end, no one was willing to take a chance on a girl with less than a year's experience busing tables and no formal training—regardless of how developed her palate may be. Even at Jude's, there were several more qualified applicants, but Laurent threatened to walk if I didn't promote you–"

"Whoa." I hold up my hand. "Wait. He did that?"

"Don't you get it? He believes in you. He _knows_ you're going to be amazing. So do I, but to everyone else it looks like I'm playing favorites."

"Because we live together."

He groans. "No, dipshit, it's because I'm in love with you!"

I blink a few times.

"And apparently, everyone knew that but you." He covers his face with his hands, sighing. "Fuck."

"You can't—I mean—..."

"This isn't how I wanted to tell you, but since it's out..." He reaches for me, but just when we're about to touch, he pulls away.

Not knowing what to say, I stare at the floor. I don't want to lie, but I don't want to hurt him, either.

It's not as if I've never wondered what it would be like to be with Carlisle. But then I think of Edward, and lusting after Carlisle seems so wrong.

He cups my face in his hands and gently nudges my face toward his. There's something in his eyes I never once saw in Edward's.

Acceptance.

He moves closer; our bodies are just barely touching.

"I love you, Izzy," he says.

Almost in slow motion, he lowers his mouth to mine. His goatee tickles my skin, and I know this is real.

And then I'm leaping backward, standing up. Carlisle looks up at me, with shock and hurt and a whole bunch of other things I really don't want to see crossing his face.

"I'm sorry," I say as I bolt to my room. "I just can't."

**-o-O-o-**

**December 25, 2009**

From somewhere behind me, I hear Esme's voice. "I'm calling right now."

In my haste to get to Alice, I crash right into Sarah. The impact makes my teeth close around my tongue. I wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand and swallow.

"Please..."

Despite my inability to produce the words, she nods as if she knows what I'm trying to say.

_I can't lose Alice again._

"It's okay, Izzy." She squeezes my hand as she hurries past me. "I'm sure she's going to be fine."

I think she's wrong, but I don't bother arguing. I just get the hell out of her way.

"I need to get her on the floor." Sarah kneels beside Edward and reaches for Alice.

"Oh, the hell you do," he says, holding up his hand. "You've done quite enough already."

"You've got to be _fucking_ kidding me." Carlisle pushes Edward out of Sarah's way. For a split second, I think Carlisle's going to throw a punch, but his hands stay on Edward's shoulders. He shakes him as he speaks. "She's a nurse, Edward. Your sister is unconscious, and my mom's a _nurse_. Who the hell cares what happened forty years ago?"

Carlisle releases Edward and goes over to Alice. He lifts her from the armchair and lays her on the floor. Right away, Sarah takes Alice's wrist in her hands.

Edward crouches on the floor beside her. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't–"

"It's okay." She releases Alice's wrist and moves so she's kneeling beside Alice's head. "Carlisle? I need you to start compressions."

Carlisle gets on the floor and starts to push on Alice's chest. "One-and-two-and-three..."

"Stop it!" Edward's shaking as yells at Carlisle. "Can't you hear that crunching noise? You're pressing too hard."

Carlisle just keeps counting.

"Those are her ribs," Sarah says. "The sound is scary; I know, but it's normal. Does she have a history of heart problems?"

"Thirteen-and-fourteen-and-fifteen..."

Edward shakes his head. "Not that I'm aware of. She doesn't talk much about her health, not even when I ask. Is she...I mean, she won't..." His voice breaks.

I get down on the floor and put my arms around him.

"We're getting oxygen through her body," Sarah says. "That means she'll have a chance."

"Twenty-eight-and-twenty-nine-and-thirty."

Carlisle pauses. Pinching Alice's nose, Sarah takes a deep breath before exhaling into Alice's mouth. She does this twice before Carlisle resumes pressing on her chest.

"One-and-two-and-three..."

After a few minutes, Carlisle starts to get winded. Without missing a beat, he and Sarah switch positions. She's on her second round of chest compressions when the paramedics arrive. They get to work with almost inhuman speed as Sarah fills them in on what's going on. In the time it takes me to blink, they've cut through her shirt and bra, exposing her chest. Of course, she has no breasts—just an elaborate Celtic knot tattoo.

Edward covers his face with his hands, wincing. I understand why. Knowing is different from seeing. It's no surprise that neither of us watch as the paramedic places the defibrillator pads on her chest.

**-o-O-o-**

Edward insists on staying with Alice. At first, the paramedics say no. When he tells them he's a United States Senator, they decide to make an exception.

As he gets inside the ambulance, he calls over his shoulder, "Meet us there."

For a while, I'm too stunned to move. It isn't until the blare of the sirens fades completely that I'm able to think coherently. The first thing I need to is figure out how I'm getting to the hospital.

I turn to Carlisle. "Give me your car keys."

Esme stops him before his hand even gets to his pocket.

"You've been drinking all night and you're upset. You _know _you're in no shape to drive."

"No one here is in any shape to drive!"

"I am," Sarah says.

Carlisle tosses her his keys. "Okay, let's go."

I look at him in disbelief. "You're coming?"

"I have to," he says. "She's my sister."

* * *

**end note:**

Dextrose and Saline is the fluid the paramedics would have most likely put in Alice's I.V.

As always, thank you for reading.


	43. Honker's Ale

**thanks to LJ Summers, Bookishqua, Detochkina**

**and giselle-lx**

* * *

**Chapter ****Forty****-****Two**

**Honker****'****s ****Ale**

* * *

**January**** 1, 2001**

I flip the lock on the door and throw myself onto my bed. What the hell is wrong with me? Carlisle didn't do anything I haven't wanted him to do for weeks—months, if I wanted to be honest. I should be making out with him right now—and I _would_ be if I hadn't looked at him and seen Edward—something that happens far more often than I care to admit.

Just when I think I can't feel any shittier about myself, I hear the stereo from Carlisle's room.

_Fucking __A__. _

He only listens to R.E.M. when he's _really _upset. I want to knock on his door and tell him it's not him, it's me. Even though it's the truth, I think it would only fuck things up more. Shit. _Anything _I say will fuck things up more.

Since talking to him is clearly not an option, I pick up a pen and paper and do the next best thing. When I'm happy with what I've written, I slide it under his door.

I go back to my room to wait.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

**January**** 4, 2001**

I make sure Carlisle doesn't see me when I walk into the pub. It's easy enough; he's busy playing that inescapable Rob Thomas song. He claims he started taking gigs again because he needs the money if he wants to open his own restaurant sometime this decade, but I know better. Performing relaxes him. Ever since he was promoted at Jude's, he needs all the help with that he can get.

I slide onto a barstool way in the back. I've seen him play more times than I can count, but I could watch him forever. It's not because he's gorgeous, though he is. Even while performing, there's something about him that's just so real. After Edward's contrived coolness, it's fascinating to see a guy let himself _feel_.

The song ends, and Carlisle puts down his guitar. "In college, I used to have a weekly gig at this country dive bar near campus. I don't think I've played this song since I stopped playing there, but it's been floating around my head all week." With a shrug and a smile, he scoots over onto the piano bench and starts to sing.

I hate country music, but this song... it's exactly how I feel about Edward. Then Carlisle gets to the second verse–

_**"And I never drew one response from you  
all because you were failed by some guy you never knew  
'Cause I've done everything I know to try to make you mine  
And I think it's gonna hurt me for a long, long time."**_

And I realize it's also how Carlisle feels about me. By the end of the song, my face is wet and my beer is empty. The band takes a break between sets, so I ask the bartender to close out my tab. The last thing I want is for Carlisle to see me like this.

Before I can settle up, I hear him behind me.

"I'll have a Honker's, please."

He leans on the bar, his hand right beside my glass. I can't help staring at his fingers. They're long, like Edward's.

"Hey, Iz," he says. "I wasn't expecting you to be here tonight."

"I got off work early, and well..." It's not the time or the place, but I can't help it. "I missed you. Anyway, that song you just played...I loved it."

He snorts. "Right. I guess that's why you cried through it."

I smack him lightly on the shoulder. "That's not why I was crying."

I don't want to tell him it reminded me of Edward. Besides, if he read the letter I wrote him, he'd probably know that. Except it's been days, and he hasn't mentioned it...

"Hey, did you get the note I left you a few days ago?"

He nods. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. _Fuck__._

"Yeah." I shrug.

"The song made you think of Edward."

I shift on my stool and start picking apart my cuticle with my thumbnail.

Rolling his eyes, he mutters, "Of course it would. Look, Iz, I know you consider me your best friend and I'm sure in time I'll be able to hear how a song I sang about _you_ reminds you of _him_, but for now I just...can't."

"I didn't mean it that way–"

"I should get back to work." Shaking his head, he throws a ten onto the bar. "I'll see you at home."

**-o-O-o-**

**December**** 25, 2009**

When I tell the front desk whom we're here to see, a security guard escorts us past the waiting room to an unmarked door on the other end of the corridor.

He uses his badge to unlock it, then whisks us inside. Edward's talking on his phone, pacing around the room.

"Excuse me, Senator," the guard says. "They say they're family."

"They are; it's fine." Edward nods at Carlisle before turning back to his phone call. "I don't know how you could keep this from me…. Goddamn it, Jasper! Her heart stopped! I don't give a fuck what she _said_ she wanted, if you loved her … Look, we don't have time for this. What else do you know?"

He takes a pen from his pocket and looks at me, mouthing the word _paper__._ When I shake my head, he starts to write on the wall.

"Who is her doctor in Washington? … Okay. … I'll call back if I need anything else." He shoves his phone into his pocket but continues scribbling notes on the wallpaper.

The next thing I know, the pen is flying across the room and Edward's sinking to the floor, covering his face with his hands.

I get down on my knees and wrap my arms around him. "What did Jasper say?"

He drops his hands; the expression on his face tells me everything I need to know.

"She can't," I whisper. "I mean...not after..."

As much as I don't want to believe it, it all makes sense—her insistence I come to D.C., how tired she was over Thanksgiving, that she didn't mind that I spent most of my visit working through stuff with Edward.

"What is it?" Carlisle asks.

"Breast cancer." Edward rises to his feet, pulling me with him. "I should go find her doctors. They were running tests..."

Sarah stands up and moves toward the door. "I'll take care of that. You stay here."

Edward turns to her. "Ms. Crawforth?"

She stops. "Yes?"

"Earlier at dinner..." He sighs. "We would have lost her if not for you." He looks at Carlisle. "Both of you."

"It was nothing," she says, then hurries out into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind her.

Edward opens his mouth as if he's about to say something, but his words don't come. His tears, however, do.

I pull him back into my arms, holding him as tightly as I can.

He doesn't take his eyes off Carlisle. "I know it's been...just...thank you."

It doesn't matter if he's choking on his words; Carlisle's expression softens, and I know he understands. He comes toward us and lays his hand on Edward's shoulder.

"You're welcome."

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

From time to time I glance at my phone thinking we've been here for hours, only to realize just a minute or two have passed since the last time I looked. I think if I let myself cry, at least I'd feel as if I were doing something_._ But Edward is managing to keep calm and, even though he took a Klonopin, I don't want to do anything that could jeopardize his composure. Even so, I don't know how long I can keep myself together.

"I'm going to get all of us some coffee," Sarah says, rising to her feet.

"Do you want me to come with you, Ma?" Carlisle asks.

"No, you stay here," she says. "I can manage."

Two minutes have passed when there's a knock at the door.

"That was fast." I get up to let Sarah back in, but when I open the door, it isn't her standing in the corridor.

I take a deep breath and swallow hard. "Hello, Mr . Cullen."

"Good evening, Isabella." He looks over my shoulder at Edward. "If you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with my son."

Edward rolls his eyes. "Which one?" he says icily.

William's eyes settle on Carlisle. He _must_ feel as if he's looking at a younger version of himself. If this surprises him at all, it doesn't show on his face. Truth be told, _nothing _shows on his face.

The room is silent until Sarah appears in the doorway.

"I wasn't sure how Edward took his, so I got a little of everything." She stops in her tracks when she sees Mr. Cullen.

"Hello, William," she says.

The bite in her voice makes me shiver. I look over at Carlisle; he's staring at William, his face one part fascination to two parts horror.

If William's at all affected by seeing the son he never knew, I don't see it. He nods at Sarah then turns back to Carlisle.

This time William doesn't bother hiding his contempt. "I'd like a moment alone with _Edward_, please."

* * *

**Last week I posted an Izzy/Carlisle outtake from his POV.**

** You can find it posted under The Patron Saint of Lost Causes.**

"Long, Long Time" ©1970 by Gary White, performed most notably by Linda Ronstadt

As it was written for a woman, Carlisle changed the lyrics slightly to suit his situation.

**Thank you for staying with me.**


	44. Clear Liquids

**Thanks to LJSummers, Bookishqua, Detochkina, **

**and giselle-lx.**

**The unabridged version of this chapter (no fade to black) can be found under _Fall to Ruin One Day_ Outtakes.**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Three (Abridged)**

**Clear Liquids**

* * *

**January**** 8, 2001**

Carlisle's barely looked at me since the bar the other night, and now is not an exception—his eyes stay focused on the countertop as I walk into the kitchen. We make eye contact for all of a second before he turns his attention back to prepping dinner.

"Interesting choice of attire," he says. "I was wondering where that one went."

I look down at my chest; I'm wearing one of his U2 tour shirts.

"Do you want it back?" I ask. "You said it didn't bother you–"

"It doesn't." He pulls the sharpening rod from the its block and runs it against the blade of the cheese knife with hard, quick strokes.

"I'm sorry." I don't know what else to tell him.

"Why?" He puts the rod away then leans on the countertop, sighing. "You haven't done anything I haven't told you it was okay to do."

"I know." I think back to last week and everything I wanted to do that I didn't.

He pours some honey onto a slice of Pecorino and offers it to me. As I raise my hand to take it, it occurs to me _talking_ isn't the way to go about this—what I need to do is _show _him I want him, but I just don't know how. With Edward, I almost never initiated sex—mostly because he intimidated the crap out of me. Sex was the one aspect of our relationship in which he usually didn't try to make me into someone I'm not; I didn't think I could have handled it he were to criticize my performance there, too.

But I can't imagine Carlisle doing that. If anything, he makes me embrace the person I already am—a person who, at the moment, wants to go to bed with him. I'm almost positive I'll fuck up telling him, so I'm left with no choice but to _show _him.

So I eat the cheese right out of his hand.

"Do you like it?" he asks.

"Yes. In fact, I'd like to try some more, if that's okay with you."

He starts drizzling honey on another piece.

I shake my head. "I'm not talking about that."

_Come on, Izzy. You can do this._

I raise his hand to my lips and suck his index finger into my mouth. He gasps and, though his face betrays his shock, he doesn't pull away from me. If anything, he leans a bit closer.

"Izzy..." he says, his voice breathy. "You have no idea what this is doing to me."

I release his finger from my mouth, but I don't let go of his hand. "Then tell me."

He presses my hand against the front of his pants. I can feel him through the fabric, and he's hard.

Even after I rejected him, even after I hurt him, even though I'm a total spazz, he's _hard__. _

"You want me?" I ask.

Nodding, he pulls his hand away. Almost involuntarily, my hand closes around him, my thumb brushing across the tip through his pants.

"Seriously? I thought I'd ruined any chance I had with you. Most guys–"

"Goddamn it, Izzy, I'm a man!"

The next thing I know, his tongue is in my mouth. Unlike last week, I don't panic and I don't run away. I kiss him back, marveling at the way his goatee tickles my face.

"Carlisle..."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No. Oh, god, no. It's just...Shit, I don't even know how to say this."

He moves my hand away from his cock and lays it on the countertop, covering it with his own.

"I think it would be easier for us to talk if we weren't so distracted," he says.

"Oh, believe me—I'm still distracted. Carlisle..." I take a deep breath. "If we do this...I'm just worried things will change between us."

"Last week I told you I was in love with you. I think it's safe to say they already have."

"I don't want to use you for sex."

He laughs. "I'll let you in on a little secret—it isn't possible to use a man for sex."

"You know what I mean...I just don't want..." I sigh.

"What _do_ you want?"

I breathe in deep and focus on his eyes. "I want you to take off my clothes. I mean, if you want to..." I look down at the floor again. "Shit."

He touches my face and angles my head toward his.

"I want to," he says. "I want _you_."

I close my eyes and swallow hard. When I open them, I can't bring myself to look at him.

"Okay."

"Relax, Izzy. It's just me."

"I know—but before you, there was just him."

He presses his lips to mine; this time, it's close-mouthed and gentle. With one hand at the base of my neck, he slides the other under the hem of my t-shirt. When I feel his calloused thumb against my skin I stop thinking.

"And now?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

He kisses from my mouth to my ear. "Who are you with _now_?"

"Only you," I tell him.

At the moment, it's true.

He tightens his arms around me and he lifts me onto the kitchen island. The next thing I know, his head is between my thighs. As a lover, he's both skilled and generous, and he has a tongue that could make me forget about everything in the world.

Except Edward.

**-****o****-****O****-****o****-**

**December**** 26, 2009**

Edward holds up his hand. "I'm not asking _anyone _to go _anywhere_."

"Fine." William pushes the door open and, looking at Edward, gestures toward the hallway. "After you."

Carlisle calls after them. "For real, Dad?"

He says the word _dad_ as if it's an insult.

"Out, Edward," William says, ignoring Carlisle.

_What __does __William __think __he __has__, __a __dog__?_

"It's going to be like this?" Carlisle jeers. "I shouldn't be surprised. I mean in thirty-nine years, you've never called or come to see me. But now we're in the same room and you're looking at me..."

When William turns to the door, Carlisle starts to yell.

"For god's sake, look at me! Look at me and tell me you don't feel anything."

William turns to Edward. "I'll meet you in the hall."

Edward's eyes widen. "Please, sir. Don't. Believe me, he isn't going to–"

"Edward." William's voice increases in both pitch and volume from one syllable to the next.

"I'm not going anywhere." Edward folds his arms across his chest.

"Have you lost your mind?" William asks him.

"No, sir. If anything, I found my conscience." Edward looks at Carlisle; his expression shifts from defiance to empathy. "I'm sorry; you don't deserve this."

William glares at Sarah. "You know very well I don't play games. I'm not sure why you're here–"

She rolls her eyes. "William, your daughter went into cardiac arrest at my son's house. Carlisle and I gave her CPR."

"You just _happened_ to be there?" He laughs. "How convenient for you! Tell me: how much do you want?"

"I don't _want _anything."

"Right."

"Someone had to do something." She shakes her head, sighing. "I'm here because I care what happens to your daughter—that's all. I have no idea why you think I'd –"

"How much do you want, Sarah?" he repeats. "You must have a number in mind; you wouldn't be here if you didn't."

She doesn't flinch; her eyes remain focused on William.

"If you'd all excuse us for a moment," she says, "I'd like to speak to William privately."

Carlisle puts his hand on her shoulder. "Ma–"

"I'll be fine, Sweetheart."

His skepticism shows on his face.

"Really." Her smile is one of sadness and determination.

He glares at William. "I'll be right outside."

Once the three of us are out in the hallway, the door slams shut behind us.

After a while, Carlisle leans against the wall and sighs. "When your—I mean—our father asked you to leave, you said you were sorry. Why?"

"I knew what was coming," Edward says softly. "He's done this before."

Carlisle gulps. "So there are others? I mean, besides us..."

"I don't _think_ so."

"Then how did you know he'd..." Carlisle shakes his head. "I don't even know what to call what just happened in there."

"Bribery is part of how he operates," Edward says. "It usually works. Throw enough money at most people, they'll do anything..."

"Vote for anyone?" Carlisle asks.

Edward shrugs then offers him a sad smile. "Something like that."

Before I can ask him to elaborate, I notice one of Alice's doctors coming toward us. I search his face for some clue as to how Alice is doing and come up empty. If anything, he just looks tired. We probably all do.

I reach for Edward's hand. For a second or two, he leans against me. He takes a deep breath and approaches the doctor.

"Is there news?" he asks.

"Her condition is critical, but she's stabilized. We're still not sure what caused her to go into cardiac arrest. She's awake, and if you keep it short, you can see her."

Edward grabs my hand and starts pulling me down the hallway with him.

The doctor holds up his hand. "One person at a time and family only."

"Thank you," Edward says.

We take a few steps before Edward stops. He calls over his shoulder to Carlisle. "Are you coming?"

Carlisle looks startled. "Uh...no. I need to call Esme, and I should wait here. You know, just in case..." He nods toward the door. "Besides, my being there wouldn't make any sense to Alice, and she's been through enough today. But if there's news about her condition...you'll come find me?"

Edward nods. "Of course."

Before we turn the corner, I look over my shoulder at Carlisle to make sure he's okay.

He's smiling Edward's smile.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. I'd love to hear from you.**


	45. Jameson Neat

thanks to detochkina, lj summers, and bookishqua

and to kimpy0664

-o-

_for my grandmother_

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Four**

**Jameson, Neat**

* * *

**April 11, 2001**

On the rare occasion Georges shows up at Jude's, everyone gets jumpy. Ever since he opened a second restaurant, he generally only comes to tear Carlisle a new one over something insignificant or to fire someone. In the hour and a half Georges and Carlisle have been in the office with the door closed, no other employees have been summoned, so I'm fairly certain no one's neck is on the chopping block. When the phone in the wine cellar rings, it's way past the time Carlisle were supposed to go to lunch.

"Finally," I answer. "Meet you at the door in two minutes?"

"Could you come to the office?"

"Fine; I'll meet you there instead."

I grab my jacket and head upstairs. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear Georges's voice.

"Rule are rules. One way or the other, this can't continue–"

As tempting as it is to eavesdrop, the likelihood of getting caught is too great, so I knock on the door. When Carlisle opens it, I notice Georges is the one sitting behind the desk.

_Oh, fuck._

"Isabella," Georges says. "Please have a seat."

I take one of the chairs facing him; Carlisle sits in the other. A second later, Carlisle stands up and drags his chair across the carpet until our armrests are touching.

"As you are aware, we have a strict anti-fraternization policy between management and their direct reports..."

_Of course, I'm aware of it. That it's never been enforced is a running joke among the waitstaff._

I nod.

"It has been brought to my attention that not only are you and Carlisle involved in such a relationship, but because of your...involvement...you were given a promotion for which you were not qualified. Is this true?"

I look at Carlisle. "Shouldn't Laurent be here, too?"

He shakes his head. "Ultimately, it was my decision to promote you." He turns to Georges. "And I'm willing to own it–"

"Isabella, you're fired."

My mouth falls open, and I look at Georges. There's nothing in his face that would indicate he just said what I think he said, and I start to wonder if maybe I imagined it. Then I hear Carlisle's voice from somewhere beside me.

"Fine, then. I quit."

**-o-O-o-**

It's interesting, the kind of people who hang out in bars on weekday afternoons. I scan the room around me and see a couple of college students, some dudes in suits talking about how they snuck out of the office, and an old guy more interested in the horse race on TV than anything happening around him.

Then there's us: Carlisle and me, the recently unemployed; and Laurent who was too pissed at Georges to stay at work.

_"C'est un connard." _Laurent downs a shot of Jameson. His face scrunches up as he turns to me. "What now?"

I take a deep breath. This is the first time I'm saying it out loud, and part of me is afraid they'll both laugh in my face. Lord knows Edward probably would.

"I want to be a sommelier."

Carlisle's expression softens. "I think you would be amazing."

"So here's what I'm thinking," I say. "I already know enough to pass my Level I–"

"It doesn't matter," Laurent explains."You need another two years in the restaurant industry before you can even register for the course."

** "**No," I say, "Three years in the industry is strongly suggested, not required."

"He's right, Iz. They won't let you anywhere near Level III without it." Carlisle turns to Laurent. "Didn't your niece go through Levels I and II?"

"She did, but she wanted to learn more about wine to be a better chef. It wasn't as if she wanted to be a sommelier."

"I don't want to be any old _som_," I say. "I want to be a Master."

"Isabella..." Laurent adopts a fatherly tone. "Of the forty-four Master Sommeliers in the world, only six are women."

I sigh. "In other words, you don't think I can do this."

"That's not it at all," he says. "I _know _you can do it. I just don't want you to think it will be easy–"

"I don't."

"Okay then," Carlisle says. "I think you should register for Level I as soon as possible. You'll need a decent reason as to why you're no longer employed–"

I blink back tears. "What? That the owner of Jude's is a misogynistic prick who fired me for sleeping with someone I love isn't decent enough?"

Carlisle smiles, and for a moment, no one says anything.

Then Laurent snaps his fingers. "An internship in Armagnac—that's the answer. You can stay with my sister and study under my niece, Esme. A few weeks there and you'll be ready for Level II." He slides off his barstool. "I should be getting back to work. If Georges is on a rampage..." He kisses my cheek. "You be good. _Á bientôt_!"

After Carlisle waves goodbye to Laurent, he turns back to me. "He's right, you know. Add a few MBA-level courses in restaurant management and a diploma from culinary school, and your odds of being accepted to Level III will be as good as anyone's."

I think about what he's saying. Culinary school. Graduate-level coursework. The last thing I need is more student debt. But when I think about where I am as opposed to where I want to be, it all seems worth it—assuming it works.

"If I do all that, do you think it'll make up for the fact I have tits?" This is when it hits me—I was really fired—and I can't stop myself from crying.

Carlisle puts his arms around me and takes care of the bar tab.

Later, when he thinks I've dozed off, he gets out of bed and goes to his computer. Through mostly closed eyes, I watch him pull up Quicken. A few minutes of crunching numbers later, he pounds his fist on his desk and starts to cry.

Knowing he wouldn't want me to see him like this, I close my eyes and pretend I'm asleep.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 26, 2009**

Alice doesn't look as bad as I expect her to look, but that's not saying much. I sit in the chair beside her bed; that it's still warm from Edward's body has a calming effect on me. _If he could get through this, I can, too. _

When she sees me, she sighs. **"**Edward told me Carlisle and Sarah gave me CPR, and that they've been here all night."

"Yes."

She sighs again. "I guess it's true, then."

** "**What's true?"

** "**That Carlisle is my..." Yawning, she rubs her eyes. "It's still weird to say it."

** "**I thought Edward would wait until things got a little better to tell you."

** "**He didn't...tell me."

** "**Then how did you...?"

She gives me her infamous You're-a-Dumbass-Izzy look.

** "**Oh, no," I say, shaking my head. "You couldn't have. I don't care if you father_ is_ on the board of the hospital; there's no way in hell a nurse is going to find you a Magic 8 Ball."

She rolls her eyes."Oh, please. I did _not_ ask the Oracle. The first time I saw Carlisle's face...he has my eyes and Edward's smile. I knew my dad played around a bit after my mom died, I just never thought... I don't know."

After a minute or so of silence, I decide I can't take another second.

** "**I still can't believe you're sick."

"We all knew it was coming," she says.

"I thought when it did, you'd tell me."

**"**Oh? Kind of like you didn't tell me I had another brother?"

I wince.

"How long have you known?" she asks.

"I figured it out a few weeks ago when you sent me that old family picture. I'd never seen your father as a young man–"

"I meant that I _had_ a brother, not who it was."

I can't bring myself to look at her, so I stare at my hands in my lap.

"That's what I thought." She sighs. "I expect this from Edward, but you...Why didn't you tell me?"

I whip my head up to look at her. "I should be asking you the same question!" The second the words come out of my mouth, I already regret them. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have snapped at you." I take a deep breath then slowly exhale. "I just want you to know I'm here for you. I _know _you can beat this–"

** "**Yeah, right."

** "**Alice–"

** "**Don't you get it? I did everything I could—had the gene test, went on preventative drugs, had a prophylactic mastectomy. And you know what I got from that? A heart condition and the body of a ten-year-old boy. I still got cancer in my thirties. I still ended up with my very own bed in the hospital my mother died in..." She swallows hard. "I remember it, you know—unlike Edward, I had to watch. At the end, she was sicker from the chemo than she was from cancer. If I'm going to go, I might as well..." With her eyes closed, she sighs. "I just can't fight it anymore. I'm tired, and it's no use anyway. I'm done with it. Whether I have two more days or two more years doesn't matter. I refuse to waste another minute of my life bald, weak, and puking."

I stare at the door again; I don't want her to see me cry.

** "**Look at me."

I turn my head slowly; her eyes meet mine with fierce determination.

"This is real, Izzy. It's _real_, and it's going to kill me."

"No." I shake my head. "It isn't–"

** "**I'm dying, Izzy—I am. But do you know what that means? Right now, I'm still alive."

** "**But you're giving up–"

"No. I'm going to live."

She covers her mouth, yawning. I stay with her until she falls asleep.

When I step out into the hallway, Edward's there waiting. He takes my hand in his, and though I have no idea where we're going, I walk with him anyway. I think I always will.

After a while, we stop in front of the chapel. He gestures to a portrait on the wall beside the door. I read the inscription:

_In loving memory of Elizabeth Masen Cullen_

_ 1951-1989_

I look at him; he's still staring at his mother's picture.

"I wasn't here when she died. I stayed at school in Boston; my father said that was more important, that I needed to stay focused on my..." He raises his hand and curls his fingers like quotation marks. "...long-term goals. Anyway, I called Howard and Joe while you were visiting with Alice. There's going to a be a press conference tomorrow, and I'll make the announcement then. It would be easier for me to get through it if you're standing beside me, but I understand if you don't want to."

I have no idea who Howard and Joe are, but I let that go for now.

"Why are you holding a press conference?"

When he looks at me, his face is almost serene.

"I resigned from the Senate."

* * *

**end note:**

"C'est un connard" is French for "He is a shithead."

Thank you for reading.


	46. Reserve

**thanks to LJ Summers, bookishqua, **

**detochkina, and giselle-lx**

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Five**

**Reserve**

* * *

**April 28, 2001**

My mouth drops open the second Carlisle walks in the room. Short-haired and clean shaven, he's classically handsome—more like a model than a rock star. In other words, he looks the way Edward would look if he were blond and didn't dress like Brooks Brothers threw up on him.

"Whoa." I step away from the pot I'm stirring. "Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"

He shrugs. "I'd been at Jude's for long enough that how I looked didn't matter, but since I'm going on job interviews...I'm thirty. It's time to look like a grown-up."

I'm not sure how to tell him that now he's clean shaven, he bears a freakish resemblance to my ex. "I guess."

"What? You don't like it?"

I'm about to make something up when he sees my rent check on the kitchen island. He frowns, then picks it up and hands it back to me. "No way. You need this to pay for France. Even with Esme putting you up, you'll still have expenses—there's no way you can afford to pay rent this month."

"There's no way you can afford for me _not_ to pay rent this month."

"I'm going to make money, Iz."

"When you were a sous at Jude's, Georges gave you free rein over the kitchen and you _still_ hated cooking someone else's dishes."

"So I take a job I don't like for a while. It won't be the first time."

"Goddamn it!" I pound my fist against the island. "This is all my fucking fault."

"Hey." He pulls me into his arms. "I don't have any regrets. I would hope you don't, either..."

I have more regrets than he can possibly imagine, but I shake my head anyway.

"Good," he says. "Besides, it's not as if I don't have any money. I still have that lump-sum child support payment from the sperm donor sitting in the bank. Maybe it's time–"

"No." I take a step back so I can see his face. "You promised yourself you wouldn't touch that."

It has always been the thing he was most proud of. That he and his mom would survive and succeed without the beneficence of the guy who'd sired him.

"Carlisle, you made it without him. You shouldn't have to change all that now."

"But if it gets me my own restaurant and you to France..." His arms tighten around me. "I don't need anything else."

"I don't want you to give up on your dreams."

"Oh, Izzy." He kisses the top of my head. "I haven't."

**-o-O-o-**

**December 26, 2009**

"I'm sorry." I lean against the chapel door and mentally replay his words. There's no way he said what I think he said. "You did what?"

"I resigned from the Senate."

I should be happy. I want this—god, how I want this. But only if he wants it, too.

"But...why?"

He looks up at his mother's portrait. "I can't change the fact I wasn't there for my mom, but I'm not about to make the same mistake twice."

"Alice wouldn't want you to give up on your dreams. I mean, this is all you've ever wanted–"

"Goddamn it!" Groaning, he runs a hand through his hair and kicks the wall. "How could I have been such a fucking idiot? I mean, what the hell kind of person doesn't notice his sister is dying?"

"Edward...look at me." I brush my hand across his stubble-covered cheek, nudging his face up so his eyes meet mine. "You can't blame yourself."

"Can't I? What if we'd lost her tonight? Then she'd never know..." He closes his eyes, sighing. "I've lost too many people before I had the chance to show them what they mean to me–"

"Baby, that's all in the past. Leaving a job you love isn't going to make any of that go away."

"I know, but—"

"People who love you would never ask you to give up a part of yourself for them, regardless of the circumstances. I wouldn't, and I know Alice wouldn't. Politics is part of what makes you _you_."

"She doesn't have a lot of time, Izzy. I can't take the thought of her spending even a second of it alone."

I throw myself against him and, for the first time ever, I don't have to stretch to wrap my arms around his neck. I can reach him now that he's stepped down from his pedestal; holding him no longer seems impossible.

So I do.

**-o-O-o-**

On our way back to Alice's room, we pass Carlisle in the hallway. So much has happened in the past hour, I've totally forgotten about Sarah and William.

"Is your mom okay?" I ask.

"Are you kidding?" He laughs. "She handed him his ass." He launches into a description of what happened, complete with the expletives he didn't think his mother knew, let alone knew how to use.

"Wow." Edward shakes his head. "I can't imagine...not that he doesn't deserve it. I just wish I could have seen it."

"Me, too," Carlisle says. "Anyway, I wanted to stop in to see Alice, but–"

"It's fine; she knows."

They both whip their heads to look at me, their mouths hanging open.

"What?" I shrug. "She figured it out on her own. Believe me, she wasn't very happy–"

"In that case, maybe I should get going," Carlisle says.

"Oh no. It's _me_ she's pissed at." I look at Edward. "Probably you, too, though she didn't mention it."

Edward sighs. "I'll have to face her sooner or later. Come on." He pats Carlisle on the back. "There's safety in numbers."

When we get to Alice's room, her eyes go right to Carlisle. "Hello there, Will."

I expect him to flip out—he usually does when someone uses his first name—but he doesn't seem to mind. If anything, he looks amused.

"Hi, Mary," he says with a wink.

She points to the floor beside her bed. "Pull up a chair."

He follows her orders with a smile.

"This is still so weird for me," she says. "I have so many questions—how Edward knew about you, what the deal was between your mom and my dad, what it was like for you growing up—I want to hear all of it."

"Okay," he says, nodding. "Where would you like me to start?"

"Oh, before I forget! Izzy told me you play guitar."

"I do..."

"Think you could sneak it in with you tomorrow? The doctors haven't decided when they're going to spring me, and if I'm going to be stuck here, I could use some decent entertainment."

Edward rolls his eyes. "I doubt he knows any Debbie Gibson."

"One freaking song!" She turns to Carlisle and holds up her index finger. "I like _one_ of her songs—mostly because our mother liked it. It was all over the radio, and she and I would sing along with it in the car. He won't let me live it down."

Carlisle laughs. "Isn't that what older brothers are for?"

"Maybe. Still, I doubt Edward could take what he dishes out." She pushes herself to sit up straighter. "Wait—how old are you?"

"Thirty-eight," he says. "Why?"

"That's fantastic!" She claps her hands. "Feel free to bust his balls as often as you like. The way I see it, you have thirty-six years to make up for."

Edward snorts. "As if there's anything either of you could make fun of me for."

"There's plenty, and you know it," she says.

Carlisle laughs. "I've already seen the picture of him in the blinking reindeer antlers."

"Quality material, if I do say so myself." She sighs. "This is usually when he plays the You-Have-to-Respect-Me-I'm-Your-Senator card."

Looking at the floor, Edward shifts his feet. "Uh, yeah. You won't be hearing that from me again."

"Oh?" Alice narrows her eyes. "You've finally gotten over yourself?"

"No, I left the Senate."

Carlisle looks at Edward in disbelief; Alice's jaw drops. I understand their reactions. Hell, it's shocking for _me_ to hear, and I already knew.

"What, did they catch you with a hooker or something?" he asks.

I roll my eyes. "Oh sure, Carlisle. Don't waste any time with the mockery."

"What?" He turns up his palms, shrugging. "When politicians resign mid-term, there's almost always a sex scandal."

"He's right," Edward says, laughing. "But no, nothing like that."

"Seriously though," Alice says. "Why?"

"Alice..." His smile fades, and when he speaks, his voice is almost too quiet to hear. "I can't let you do this alone."

She gestures for him to come closer; he sits on the foot of her bed and rests his hand on her blanket-covered leg.

"What's really going on here?" she asks. "I mean, when Mom died you didn't–"

"I know." He covers his face with his hand and sighs. "Believe me, I _know_. And I've had to live with that..."

She shakes her head. "I'd never ask you to do this."

"That's why I have to. Alice, I love you too much to let you fight this alone."

"Oh, don't start with that shit again." She holds up her hand; her face says she means business. "I told you, I'm done fighting."

"I'm still hoping you'll change your mind about that," Edward says.

Carlisle's eyes dart from Edward to Alice. "What do you mean, you're done fighting?"

She turns to Carlisle. "No more chemo. Dignity, baby. I plan to die with mine intact."

I flinch at the thought of her dying at all.

"One way or another," Edward says, "I'm not leaving your side."

Her eyes fill with tears. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Eh." He shrugs. "That's what family's for."

Laughing, Alice starts to sing. "Keep smiling, keep shining, knowing you can always count on me..." She turns to Carlisle. "He says shit like that then teases me for my taste in music. At least I don't sound like a Hallmark card."

"Seriously, Al," Edward says. "I love you, and I want to support you."

I think I just fell a little more in love with him.

Alice takes Edward's hand in one of hers and Carlisle's in the other. "Family," she says.

Neither of them argue with her.

It's a good start.

**-o-O-o-**

Edward and I stay at the hospital until just after dawn. When we finally get back to my apartment, my alarm clock is buzzing. I turn it off, and start to get out of my clothes. My cocktail dress falls to my feet in a heap of taffeta and tulle; I stand there in my slip, mentally replaying the last twenty-four hours.

Has it really only been a day?

When the mattress creaks, I turn to find Edward sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed for Christmas dinner, a vacant look on his face. I kick my dress across the room and sit beside him.

"You should try to sleep," I tell him.

"Yeah. I don't think I can."

I know the feeling.

We sit there in silence; I stare at him as he stares off into space.

"Are you having second thoughts about your resignation?"

"No, it's nothing like that. I ..." His voice breaks, and his eyes start to water. "I knew there was a chance she would get sick..."

The sight of him crying is too much. He's always the stoic one, the one who doesn't want people to know what he's thinking. For him to look the way he does now—with tear-streaked cheeks and eyes that seem greener because his face is flushed—I can't imagine what's going on inside him. As much as I want to stay strong for him, it's no use. My tears come fast and hard.

"...I mean, she _does_ have the gene. But then..." He wipes under his eyes with the heels of his hands. "...she did everything—_everything_ she could to prevent it." He shakes his head. "'Oh, it's not a big deal,' she said. 'Medicine has come a long way since we lost Mom...'" Rolling his eyes, he blows his nose into his sleeve. His cufflink catches on his nostril, leaving a streak of blood on his starched white shirt. "Not fucking far enough!"

He collapses onto me, his head on my lap as he sobs. I rub his back, hoping it will soothe him. When it doesn't, I utter the words that matter most.

"I love you, Edward...and I'm so sorry."


	47. Digestif

**"It always ends. That's what gives it value."**

**-Neil Gaiman**

* * *

writing a story about places I've never been and persons with careers I know nothing about required the help of many.

my sincerest thanks to kimpy0464, LJ Summers, Bookishqua, wime, nerac, bittenbee, candycanesfly,

melissa228, scarletletters, wrong13, jennie basset, mr. ouiser b,

detochkina, giselle-lx,

kirsten, wes, and the sommelier at Purple for their help in putting this together and making it real.

and thanks to josh, for always believing in my writing.

**as always, for dr m. **

* * *

**Chapter Forty-Six**

**Digestif**

* * *

**June 1, 2001**

"It's only a month. You'll be back before you know it."

It's the third time Carlisle has said this since we got to the airport. It's good to hear, but I wonder if it isn't as much for him as it is me.

"Besides," he continues, "you won't be able to decide if a career in wine is what you really want with me there distracting you."

"What if it isn't? Then you would have tapped into the money from the sperm donor for nothing."

"Hey." He cups my face in his hands. "Not for nothing—for _you_. And you're worth it."

His lips are pressed against mine when they make my boarding call. I know I should get going, but for whatever reason, I feel frozen in place. He breaks the kiss and steps away from me, but I pull him right back.

"Thank you for everything." When I step away from him, I'm blinking back tears. "Goddamn it. It's so hard to say goodbye to you..."

"Then don't. Come on." He takes my hand and tugs me toward the jetway. "They won't wait for you." Shrugging, he smiles at me. "I, on the other hand..."

I throw my arms around him—just one more hug. It's going to be a while before I can feel him against me again, and I need the memory to last. This time when I leave his embrace, my eyes are dry.

"See you soon," I tell him, before hurrying to the gate.

I show my boarding pass then look back to where Carlisle and I were standing. He's exactly where I left him, smiling at me. A quick wave later, I'm on my way.

As I step onto the jetway, I remember the night Alice's Magic 8-Ball told me again and again I'd regret not going to Harvard. When I was too hysterical to think straight, Alice picked it up from where I'd dropped it.

"Will Izzy be happy in whatever real-world thing she ends up doing?" she asked it.

_All signs point to yes, _it had said.

I board the plane.

**-o-O-o-**

**December 27, 2009**

When Edward steps out of my bathroom dressed for the press conference, he looks as if he fell out of his Sexiest Man Alive spread in _People _magazine. The custom suit, the starched shirt, the perfectly shined shoes—I've seen it before in hundreds of pictures of news clips. Then, the outfit was accompanied by a cool confidence and a glint in his eyes—I never doubted he was in his element. But seeing him on TV is different from how he looks now. It's almost like looking at an actor who's in costume but not in character. All these years, I thought this is who he was, but now I'm not so sure.

His eyes meet mine briefly before he lowers them, scrutinizing my outfit. For a moment, he doesn't move or say anything.

"I'm sorry," I say. "It's just that it seems people wear suits to these things–"

"You're right; they do." He focuses on my suit again. "Do you have anything more...I don't know...maybe more traditional?"

I shake my head. "This is the only decent suit I have. I scored it at a vintage shop in Wicker Park."

"What would you wear for, say, a job interview?"

The last time I went on anything approaching a job interview was roughly seven years ago. Carlisle brought up the idea of me managing the beverage service at his first restaurant when we were in bed together. To make sure I was qualified, he set up a blind tasting of several wines—not unlike the test I took for my sommelier certification. Except with Carlisle, I was wearing a blindfold and nothing else.

"I don't know; I haven't been on one in years." I look down at myself, sighing. "I'm sorry. I know it's not ideal, but there wasn't enough time for me to buy something and have it altered–"

He holds up his hand. "Wait—why are you apologizing?"

"Because you hate my suit, and I want to be appropriate.I know you don't like me wearing old clothing around your...uh...people."

He pulls back, narrowing his eyes. "When did I say that?"

"Remember all those times you insisted on buying me new clothes? There was that birthday dinner with your father. When we were out shopping for something for me to wear, you wouldn't even entertain the idea of me wearing vintage."

"My father wouldn't get it that it's your style; he'd just think you couldn't afford a new dress."

"Right—and men like your father voted for you..."

After a long sigh, he gestures for me to turn around. "This is really the only suit you own?"

"I have others, but they all have wine stains. The lights are dim enough at work no one can tell, and when I go out, this is much more my style." I smooth the jacket with my hands, then point to my waist. "See the way this is cut here, the way it flairs out a little? It makes my ass look smaller. And the skirt..." I turn so my back is to him and kick one of my legs back. "It's narrow, but the pleats in the back make it so I can get in and out of cars gracefully without giving a peepshow." Facing him, I straighten my lapels. "The way the collar is here, it makes me look as if I actually have something up top." I shrug. "I don't know. Once I bought this, I didn't think I'd ever need another one. It's black and conservative enough, but I still feel girly in it. I think that's why vintage appeals to me so much. In the 1940s, women still dressed like ladies."

Once again, he scrutinizes my clothing, but something in his eyes is different. "This is from the forties? Seriously?"

"Yes."

He rotates his index finger, and I slowly turn.

"It does look as if it was made for you," he says.

"So it will do?"

"Yes." He kisses the top of my forehead then whispers, "You look perfect."

**-o-O-o-**

Edward drums his fingers against my hand as we wait for him to take the podium. As much as I hate that he's nervous, I like that he's letting me see it.

I'm smiling as I straighten his tie. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Across the room, his chief of staff snorts. "Right now Blago's wishing he were still in office. Just think what your Senate seat would go for on eBay!"

Edward smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure whoever wins the election will pay for it one way or another. Besides, I haven't ruled out running for office again. It's just that for now, I need to be with my sister..."

For a moment, no one says anything.

Edward takes a step back and claps his hands together.

"It's time."

When we walk into the room where the press is gathered, all I see are camera flashes. _Breathe, Izzy. They're not looking at you. _Edward, on the other hand, looks perfectly composed; even peaceful. And it hits me—this is normal for him. And if he decides he wants to get back into politics in a few years, it will become normal for me, too.

I look at Edward. He smiles at me, and I know. It's different now. The person he's become is worth it. When we reach the podium, I keep my eyes on him. Everyone else just fades into the background.

He adjusts the microphone and begins to speak.

"John F. Kennedy once said, 'A man does what he must— in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures—and that is the basis of all human morality.' Duty comes in many forms. Sometimes, it's...well...Ah, shit." He claps his hands down onto the sides of the podium. "Is there anyone who doesn't know why we're here?" He looks around the room. "I didn't think so. I wish I'd thought of that before I asked my speech writer to pull an all-nighter." He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry, Dave. I think I want to wing this one.

"During my senate campaign, I told voters again and again that liberalism and family values weren't mutually exclusive." He pauses. "Family values. Liberals and conservatives alike toss the term around, and though they're willing to define it, it's always in terms of their stances on social issues. Regardless of our differences, there's one thing on which we agree: America is only as strong as her people, and people are strongest when their families are there to support them. I became a lawmaker to do my part for my country, but for me to continue doing so would be forsaking my duty to my family.

"'A man does what he must.' What _I_ must do has never been more clear to me. Thank you for the honor of serving you."

There are questions, but he doesn't stick around to answer them. He turns to me smiling, then briefly presses his lips to mine. I don't know if I'll ever belong in his world, but that doesn't matter because I belong with him.

I think I always will.

_**-fin-**_

* * *

**end note:**

Some of you have been on this journey with me for the past two-and-a-half years. Thanks for staying with me.

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

'Til we meet again, be well.

C.


	48. Epilogue

_**for Gisela**_

* * *

**November 6, 2012**

Edward says today's nothing like last time, and that's a good thing. When he campaigned for Senate four years ago, he waited for the results to come in at his campaign headquarters, surrounded by people he didn't know. This time, we're waiting it out in the privacy of our hotel suite while the election-night gathering rages on in a ballroom downstairs. Though we're a safe distance from the masses, we're not completely alone. Edward's campaign manager, Joe, is here and, of course, Carlisle and Esme are as well.

At first the mood is upbeat. Then, as more and more precincts begin to report, the room becomes increasingly tense, until we're glued to the television in silence.

"I need some air," Edward says, rising from the sofa.

After we hear the balcony door close, Carlisle turns to me. "Maybe I'm missing something, but it seems to be looking pretty good for him."

"It is," I say. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go check on him."

I find my husband out on the balcony, staring at the city lights.

I wrap my arm around his waist. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, sorry. I was thinking about the night I was elected to the Senate. It was a close a race, and I asked Alice if she thought I'd win. 'Without a doubt,' she told me. That's when I was able to relax. Because if Alice said it..." He sighs. "Anyway, I came out here to ask her what she thought this time around."

I can't control my laughter.

"What?" he asks.

"Without a doubt?" I repeat. "You realize she asked the oracle, right?"

Without saying a word, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves Alice's battle-weary Magic 8-Ball.

"I know it's a bunch of crap," he says. "I just needed to feel as if she was with me tonight."

"She is, you know."

"I know."

We stand in silence until my curiosity gets the better of me.

"So what did it say?"

"Would you believe I haven't asked it yet?"

"Seriously? What the hell are you waiting for?"

"You." He moves the 8-Ball from one hand to the other, then turns his wrist so the window is facing up. "Cannot predict now," he reads.

"Oh, please. Alice would tell you that doesn't count because you're doing it wrong." Imitating her voice, I add, "It's a Magic 8-Ball, not Jo-Jo's psychic alliance."

His eyes dart from one side to the other. "It's a piece of plastic filled with alcohol and an icosahedron die."

"That's what I always said! Anyway, Alice swore up and down that you have to ask your question out loud for it to be accurate."

"I don't care how much I miss my sister, I gave up talking to my toys when I was five."

"Fine, then. I'll do it." I clear my throat. "Will Edward win the election?" I gesture to the 8-Ball. "Go on. Flip it over."

Very slowly, the answer comes into view.

_Without a doubt. _

I tug on his arm. "Come on. Let's go back inside."

With his hand in mine, we do.

Carlisle shakes his head when he sees is. "Please tell me you have a good lawyer."

"A whole team of them," Edward says. "Why?"

"Because now that you're going to be Governor of Illinois, the odds that you'll end up in prison just increased exponentially."

Edward turns to the television set in disbelief. "They called it?"

"They did." Carlisle looks at me and smiles. "You know what this means."

Edward and I made a deal when he decided to re-enter politics: if I took time off from work to support him on the campaign trail, after the election he'd give me the capital I needed to open my own wine bar.

"I do," I say. "And I can't wait."

Joe rises to his feet. "So Governor Cullen, are you ready to go downstairs and give your victory speech?"

Edward offers me his arm. "Shall we?"

Fifteen minutes later, we walk onstage under a shower of confetti. Edward steps up to the podium, and I take my place at his side. Playing the politician's wife when I'm with him doesn't bother me the way I thought it would, mostly because he's never lost sight of the woman I became without him.

And neither have I.


End file.
